On Afghanistan's Plains
by Pompey
Summary: A look at what happened to Watson, from the Battle of Maiwand to his return to England. As this is a prequel to STUDY IN SCARLET, Holmes makes no appearance whatsoever. Complete.
1. Maiwand

Authorial notes that you may find interesting but are certainly under no obligation to read:

_The following story has been rattling around in my brain for years. What exactly happened to Watson in Afghanistan and India? Carole Nelson Douglas in_ Irene At Large _(later republished as _A Soul of Steel_) James Lowder in "The Weeping Masks" from _Shadows Over Baker Street, _and Protector of the Gray Fortress on (Ch. 3 of "Drifting Sands")_ _have all probed this idea. GM, at her site "www-solosojourn-dot-com" has given hints. But no one has sat down to tell an exact, canonical (and historically accurate) account of what happened. Bowing to the slight masochistic streak that all writers have, I decided to take it upon myself to write that account, even though I had essentially no knowledge of the "old" British military, 1880s battlefield medicine, and Afghanistan in general. _

_I've done my best to keep everything canonical and historically accurate. Most details are based on real life; a few are not. (The title comes from a line in Kiplin's "The Young British Soldier.") Genuine constructive criticism is more than welcome and will be seriously considered; flamers will be ignored or publically mocked. Reviews in general tend to make this author really, really happy. Anyone interested in researching Watson's military career/Afghanistan is invited to contact me. I saved all my sources but won't let me post website addies -- grr. _

_Thank you for your patience, and please enjoy the story. Oh yeah: I don't own Watson or Murray; they are the property of the estate of Sir ACD._

JULY 27, 1880: KHIG, AFGHANISTAN (3 miles southwest of Maiwand)

4 p.m.

That which was to be named the Battle of Maiwand was a catastrophe for the British. Out-manned, out-gunned, out-maneuvered, and half-smothered by wool uniforms in 120 degree heat, an ignoble and chaotic retreat began an hour ago. Between the billows of yellow dust, the gunpowder from the guns and cannons, and the shimmer in the air from the ungodly heat, the men of the 66th Berkshires could scarce see their hands in front of their faces. Nevertheless, they made their final stand against Ayub Khan's troops in a walled garden in Khik. Though the 66th had begun the day with 2734 souls, only about one hundred remained as a rear guard, to be cut down by Afghans in a show of fortitude so impressive even the enemy was touched.

Meanwhile, survivors pressed onward. Behind them lay the bodies of their fellow soldiers and comrades, mutilated horribly by the Afghans, who even now were pursuing them. The retreat was anything but orderly, and the peppering of enemy fire was no help. The wounded capable of walking pushed themselves to their limits. Those worse off were crowded into the overflowing gun carriages. Others found themselves at the mercy of their litter-bearers. Too often, these poor wretches were left in the dust as the bearers fled. A few doctors attached to the regiments, however, did what they could to help.

An orderly, his olive complexion sunburnt nearly to black, helped one man with a badly broken foot stagger up. "Any time now, sir, we'll be seeing a sign that says 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,' " he muttered to a surgeon working next to him.

The surgeon, all of twenty-seven years of age (1), knotted a tourniquet around the arm of a half-fainting man and guided him onto a camel. "I certainly hope not," he replied grimly. Hippocrates said, 'who would become a surgeon should join an army and follow it' but I'd rather not follow this one into Hell. Provided, of course, we're not already there." He moved on to another fallen soldier, only to find help was too late. He cursed bitterly, and scanned the horizon with fearful eyes. Desperate cries for water rose with the billows of yellow dust. "So many more," he rasped.

"Any regrets, joining the Army?"

The surgeon glanced at him with a look that was nearly unreadable from the mixed emotions. "Ask me that after we get out of this alive."

Both men ducked and dropped to their knees as enemy fire rang out over their heads. How unfair that the Afghans' jezail rifles – cobbled-together weapons firing bullets comprised of scrap metal and effective at only eighty yards – were decimating an army equipped with Brown Besses, effective at 150, and Martini-Henry rifles that were effective at 500. More worrying was the knowledge that the enemy was within eighty yards of them. The orderly grunted in surprise as one jezail bullet buried itself in the sand perilously close to his foot.

Misconstruing the sound, the surgeon leaned right, towards the orderly. "Murray, are you – " He broke off with a gasp. His left shoulder had gone quite numb. He gingerly touched the area where collarbone met shoulder joint. Intense agony and heat erupted forth and his fingers came away wet and crimson. Apparently one of the bullets had hit home. Gritting his teeth, he fumbled at his medical kit.

"My God," Murray whispered. "Dr. Watson!" He ripped his handkerchief out from his sleeve and pressed it over the wound. There was a hiss of pain, which he ignored. "I don't see an exit wound."

"No." Watson had found a bandage in his kit and stiffly held it up. "I'm sorry, would you be so kind?"

Murray complied, awkwardly. Orderlies, also known as batmen, were more servants than medics, though Dr. Watson had gently insisted that any orderly of his would learn basic first aid procedures. "I suppose you can count yourself lucky, sir. A few more inches to the right and you'd have taken it in the jugular. Can you walk?"

"I don't have much of a choice, though I would appreciate a little assistance." The surgeon held out his right hand. Reluctantly Murray seized it and pulled him to his feet. Watson swayed for a moment, eyes closed, then straightened with more determination than physical strength.

"Physician, heal thyself," he quoted ironically. Stiffly, he caught up his medical kit and gave Murray a tight smile. "Were you shot? I heard you say something before."

"No, I wasn't touched, just taken by surprise."

"Good. If you wish to stay and help any wounded I'll stay as well."

"With all due respect, Doctor, I believe you qualify as wounded and I'd be of assistance seeing you to safety."

Watson consented and the two men continued the forty-five mile journey to Kandahar. All around them, pairs and trios of men trudged. Now and then, carts of wounded passed them and frightened, riderless animals raced by. The smell of blood and gunpowder, baked earth and hot metal, hung in the air. Pleas for water came intermittently. Soldiers who were still hale were pressed into forming a makeshift rearguard, as Ayub Khan's men were pursuing them.

Not long into the trek, however, Murray realized the first compress was not sufficient. Blood had soaked through already and was coursing down the front of the doctor's uniform. Either the wound had been improperly bandaged or a major vessel had been hit. Jezail bullets were notorious for splintering into shrapnel upon impact.

"Dr. Watson, the blood –"

"I know," Watson replied grimly, "but it can't be helped. You can't tourniquet a wound to the trunk of the body." His face, beneath its sun tan, had gone rather gray and his lips were pale. "We will walk until I can't continue and then you are to go on."

"Doctor . . ."

"That's a direct order, Murray."

He sighed. "Yes, sir, but all the same I'd like to apply a second compress. With your permission, sir."

Watson heaved a sigh of his own and passed Murray his medical kit. Murray found enough material left to form an adequate compress and bound it over his original dressing. He took advantage of his close contact with the doctor-turned-patient to note the skin had gone cool and quite pale while respiration was quicker and rather shallow.

Onward they went, step after step, across the Afghan desert while the sun sunk lower and enemy fire grew closer. Watson stumbled more often, reeling slightly. Suddenly he slipped to his knees, panting, right hand pressed to the second blood-soaked compress while his left arm hung limply.

"Sir?" Murray didn't know much about taking pulses, but he doubted what he felt when he grasped the doctor's wrist was healthy or normal.

"Go on," Watson whispered through parched lips. When the batman made no move or sound, he added, "Orders, Murray. Go on."

Murray wavered. To leave the doctor now was to sentence him to death. The physical trauma and blood loss were the least of it. Both he and the doctor had seen with their own eyes how brutally the Ghazis killed any European unlucky enough to fall into their hands. No, he couldn't leave Watson behind. But Murray knew he hadn't the strength or the stamina to carry him through the night to Kandahar. He looked out across the hellish landscape for guidance and beheld a small miracle.

"Very well, sir," he said quietly. He briefly touched Watson's shoulder and ran to catch the lone, trembling pack horse a few yards away. The skittish horse took a little convincing but at last Murray gained its trust, and it followed him back to Watson as meekly as a lamb.

"Up you come, doctor," he said as cheerfully as he could under the circumstances.

Watson blinked up at him, gaze unfocused. "Orders," he murmured again.

"Yes, sir. I will go on but you're coming with me." He reached down and pulled the surgeon to his feet, taking care to jostle the left shoulder as little as possible. "I'll give you a leg up and let you take it from there."

"There are others wounded . . . " Watson protested weakly.

"You are the only wounded nearby," was Murray's answer, his voice brusque to avoid any further arguments. Watson could not use his left arm but with Murray's assistance he was able to get astride the horse. Murray took the bridle in hand and their journey resumed as they rejoined the retreat. Behind them, the sun bled into twilight and darkness and still the Afghans continued their inexorable pursuit.

(1) Many Sherlockians have concluded that Watson was born in August 7, 1852, which would have made him just shy of 28 at the Battle of Maiwand. However, Watson states that he took his degree of Doctor of Medicine in 1878 (STUDY IN SCARLET). Working backwards, if you estimate 4 years of work for the doctorate and 4 more years for the pre-requisite Bachelor of Medicine (the same amount of time it took Doyle to achieve these degrees), Watson began college in 1870. Many young men at the time began collegiate work at 16 or 17 (Doyle was 17 himself.) Therefore, if Watson began his medical training at age 17, in 1870, he was born in 1853.

As much as I'd like to say Watson's birthday is August 7, I'm in favor of Brad Keefauver's date of March 31 ( A roommate of mine was BIG into astrology and she determined that Watson's personality was most similar to that of an Aries. (Approximately March 22 – April 22). Keefauver's March 31 falls into this time range, although I don't necessarily agree with his reasoning. So while I'd like to celebrate Watson's birthday in this story, it ain't gonna happen.


	2. Water

_I read over 30 sources about the British Army, the Second Afghan War, the First Afghan War, shock/trauma, dehydration/heat-related illness, 1880s battlefield medicine, weaponry and just about anything else you could think of. And I was starting to think I had lost my mind, obsessing over things like uniform color and the precise location of the subclavian artery relative to the clavicle, when I know I'll never see a penny of monetary compensation for this story. So all the reviews about how realistic and detailed everything is . . . TOTALLY makes it worth it! Thank you, thank you, thank you! _

JULY 28, 1880: VILLAGE OF HAUZ-I-MADAT, approximately 20 miles NE of Maiwand

1 a.m.

"Dr. Watson?"

The man on the pack horse stirred, struggling to focus his thoughts. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness the past seven hours. His shoulder still throbbed abominably and his left arm was useless. The back of his right ankle, at the Achilles tendon, burned dully too but he didn't recall receiving the second bullet wound. Mercifully, it had been a glancing wound with minor damage. Murray had staunched it quite professionally. The night air was always rather cold in Afghanistan, even in July, but he seemed to be unusually chilled. His mouth was painfully dry, with cracked lips and sluggish tongue. Watson was peripherally aware that he was suffering from a bad combination of dehydration, blood loss, and trauma and yet lethargy tugged him towards apathy.

Murray continued. "Sir, they've found water. Well, it's little better than a mud hole but it's wet and cool."

Watson clung to the concept of _water_. He swallowed with difficulty and strove to concentrate. "I lost my canteen."

"Don't worry about that." Murray passed up his own canteen, which sloshed tantalizingly. "You still have your medical supplies and pistol." He thought it best not to mention the doctor had lost his rifle as well.

Murray was right about the water. It was gritty and brackish, and both tasted and smelled of sulphur. However, it was water and the few mouthfuls of it were more than welcome.

"Thank you," Watson said as he handed back the canteen, still sloshing.

Murray waved off it and the thanks. "No, sir, that's all your ration. I drank at the well. We brought back as much water as we could for the men but none could be spared for the horses, poor brutes." He stroked the pack horse's nose with some affection and patted its lathered sides. "We're about halfway to Kandahar."

"Are they still firing at us?"

Watson did not have to clarify who "they" were. Villagers, who had no love for the European invaders, took every opportunity to shoot at the retreating figures. Jezails were still the weapons of choice but even rocks and sticks were put to use. British retaliation was out of the question as ammunition was at a premium. Moreover, the low mud walls of the Afghan villages were perfect cover for the snipers. Many soldiers in the retreat had been brought down in such a manner. Watson suspected it was such a sniper that had caused his second wound.

Murray sighed. "I'm afraid so. Keep your head down, sir, that's the best advice."

"The horse is a target, as am I," Watson realized aloud and was vaguely surprised and annoyed he hadn't grasped that before. He secured the canteen to the horse's bridle, as he had done with his kit and made to get off.

"I wouldn't dismount, sir," Murray responded, anticipating the direction of the train of thought. "Horses are more valuable than gold right now and we may as well put them to use. The villagers tend not to shoot at riders for fear of hitting the animals, which they would like to lay claim to." Out of respect, he did not add that if the doctor tried to walk the rest of the journey he could very well die of exhaustion before dawn.

Watson hesitated and Murray pressed his advantage. "Doctor, at least wait until we're closer to the Citadel."

The answer was a tired sigh. "Very well."

Sources:

http://en.


	3. Kandahar

_Special thanks to PGF, for allowing me to steal a line from her review. (I tweaked it slightly for paragraph 2.)_

JULY 28, 1880: KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN

4 p.m.

The citadel at Kandahar sat thirteen miles from the Argandab River. The existing hospital proved inadequate so cots and tents had been hastily erected in the interior courtyard. The place was swollen with wounded, once the in-coming soldiers realized the only unlocked gate to the city was the Eedgah Gate.

Dying horses, donkeys, and men littered the courtyard. The moans and cries of the wounded filled the air. The smells of sun-baked blood and other bodily fluids, of hard-worn leather and wool, and sweaty horsehair combined to make an overpowering stench. The few harried doctors there were circulated among the wounded, pressing into service those still on their feet.

One surgeon – a Dr. William Bennet – knelt by a low canvas cot and took in the patient's condition: thick bandage saturated with blood over the left shoulder; bandage around the right heel and ankle; rapid, weak pulse; rapid, shallow respiration; pale and cool skin; sunken eyes; dry and cracked lips; unconsciousness. He did not fail to notice the medic's armband with its red cross (2).

"God knows we need doctors but not like this," he muttered.

Murray rose from his place on the ground. "I'm his orderly, sir. I'd be happy to assist you."

"All right." The surgeon began stripping away the dressing while the dried blood cracked and flaked away. "What happened?"

"Jezail bullet. No exit wound. The bone may be broken and I fear a major vessel was hit. He bled quite heavily. Then he took another jezail to the heel but it only clipped him."

"I'll look at it after this shoulder is taken care of. Has the bullet been removed?" The soiled dressing was discarded and Dr. Bennet went to work slicing through the seams of the coat and shirt.

"No."

Bennet sighed and cursed under his breath. "Are you capable of assisting in surgery?"

"Yes." Murray brought out Dr. Watson's medical kit. "I have his supplies here, if you care to use them. He gave me some rudimentary training in surgery."

"Fine. It saves me the trouble of finding my own," came the answer. The wound was an ugly one, raw and surrounded by purple and red bruises extending to the base of the throat and partway down the chest. Blood still pumped rhythmically - but did not spurt - from the wound, indicating an arterial bleed, albeit a slow one.

Bennet cursed again. "If there's no chloroform in the bag I'll have to operate without anesthesia. No? Well, with any luck he'll stay quiet but be ready to hold him down if he wakes up. Scalpel."

Murray had been correct; the jezail had struck the clavicle, shattering both bone and bullet. Pieces of the resulting shrapnel had pierced the conoid and trapezoid ligaments. Another had grazed the subclavian artery. The nick was relatively slight; the surgeon hypothesized out loud that it had occurred after the initial wounding, perhaps because of some jolts or bumps during the journey. Most of the other bullet fragments were more or less stopped by the scapula. Unfortunately, to dig for and remove these pieces would be far too dangerous, given the time needed and the already-present trauma.

To complicate matters, Watson did start to come around in the middle of it. Murray immediately half-flung himself over the patient, immobilizing his arms before the half-conscious struggles could escalate. Bennet did what he could, stitching the artery and ligaments and piecing the clavicle back together, before closing up the wound and wrapping it with a figure-eight. Then, as a precaution, he put the left arm in a sling and bound it to the lower body.

The most severe injury looked after, Dr. Bennet moved on to the ankle. "Of course, it had to be the Achilles tendon. Looks like not too many of the fibers were damaged but the ones that were will be difficult to repair. That will take some time to recover."

Murray held Watson still on his right side – face-down too risky a position with the shoulder wound – while Bennet did his best to repair the shredded fibers of tendon. This time, Watson remained out cold.

"That's about all we can do for him," said Bennet at last. "I'll wait until he wakes to give him any morphine." He nodded appreciatively at Murray. "I'd be obliged if you kept your eye on him, after you've cleaned these instruments and had a rest yourself."

When the orderly started to protest that a rest was not necessary, the doctor pointed at him with a finger still crimson with blood. "You'll be no good to anyone if you collapse from exhaustion too. Sit. Sleep. Have some nourishment. I'll wake you in an hour or so."

Thus ordered, Murray chose a spot on the ground that was the least blood-soaked near Dr. Watson's cot. The doctor in question still lived, though he was unconscious and would likely remain so for a while. Murray exhaled slowly and allowed his eyes to close. At least they had reached a sanctuary of sorts.

(2) There are photographs of medics in the Zulu War wearing such armbands; while I couldn't find any of medics in the Second Afghan War wearing them, both wars did occur only a year or two apart.

Sources:


	4. Planning

_The following chapter contains two naughty words. Actually, it's the same word said twice. You've been warned._

JULY 29, 1880: KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN

10 a.m.

Nearly all of the locals had fled Kandahar as the wounded British soldiers poured in and overwhelmed the citadel. For one, resources and necessities were already stretched. For another, many knew Ayub Khan and his men would surely press their advantage and attack, and few wished to fight their own countrymen. Finally, those sympathetic to Khan's cause recognized the futility of fighting the British invaders outright and made do harassing and hindering the soldiers' reinforcements.

The British, too, suspected Khan was coming and began to build up their defenses of the citadel within the city walls. Unfortunately, as the wounded from Maiwand entered the citadel, so too did those stationed within the city walls on the cantonments. With the cantonments unguarded and undefended, the Afghans seized all the weaponry and foodstuff that remained, including two cannons. Nevertheless, the British troops set to work making the citadel veritably impregnable: wire snares and tangles surrounding the citadel, repairs and improvements of the walls themselves, and building up gun platforms for the cannons and weaponry still remaining.

Before virtually all the telegraph poles in a seventy mile radius were torn down by the Afghans, those in command sent out messages explaining the potentially dire circumstances they faced. Replies had not been sent in time.

Meanwhile, the hospital staff within the citadel faced a small crisis: should the wounded stay or be removed to Quetta(3)? The enemy's movements were as of yet unknown. It was inevitable that they would strike at Kandahar but when? If the wounded were shipped out immediately they would, at best, travel at half speed, about four miles a day. This put them at risk of an ambush – disastrous. Some would not survive the journey at all. However, if the wounded remained at Kandahar, they would be at the mercy of a siege, the conditions of which would hardly be conducive to recovery. And what if (or when) medical supplies ran out? What then?

"Send us to Quetta," said Dr. Watson quietly.

Dr. Bennett paused in his checking of the dressing on Watson's shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

"I think removal to Quetta would be the best course of action. Ayub Khan's forces will most likely attack from the southwest, from the direction of Maiwand. Quetta lies within neutral territory, relatively speaking."

Dr. Bennet withheld his opinion while he probed the wound. Amid the fearful bruises was worrisome warmth, redness, and swelling. "Looks like an infection is setting in." He rested his hand on Watson's forehead for a moment. "And you have a touch of fever."

"Or a touch of sunburn."

Bennet ignored that. He applied a clean compress to the wound and began bandaging it in place. "Pray allow me make some observations concerning the journey to Quetta."

"Certainly."

"Just over 160 of you wounded arrived here. Many of you, yourself included, are still suffering the effects of intense heat, thirst, and exhaustion. Several have broken bones, including yourself, which could become serious misaligned during travel and heal improperly as a result. Add to it the grossly unsanitary conditions inherent in such a convoy and the already-present infections in many patients, again, including yourself, and the end result will almost certainly be disastrous."

Watson waited quietly until the bandage was secured and Bennet made to move on. "Sieges can also be disastrous for the wounded and ill. The Siege of Lucknow springs to mind, as Colonel Hayter (4) could tell you. There is also the Siege of Jellalabad from the last war here, victory for our side though it was. Men are wounded and killed in sieges. These hospital huts are crowded as it is. It makes far more sense for us to risk Quetta than to stay here, straining the supplies."

Bennet raised his eyebrows. "In short, you're damned if you do and damned if you don't."

"Well, this is war."

(3) Yes, I am aware that Dr. Watson, in A STUDY IN SCARLET, says he was sent to Peshawar, located in present-day Pakistan. Have patience; it will work out.

(4) You remember Colonel Hayter, don't you? He "had come under [Watson's care in Afghanistan" and invited both Holmes and Watson for a visit to his "bachelor establishment" in REIGATE PUZZLE.

Sources:


	5. Departing

_The following chapter contains controversial material; to wit, euthanasia. The author apologizes in advance for any offense taken as offense is not meant. The author also wishes to add that the actions of the character(s) does not necessarily reflect her own views on euthanasia. This chapter is rated "T." Reader discretion is advised. _

AUGUST 1, 1880: KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN

7:30 a.m.

Early in the morning, the wounded from Maiwand were packed into whatever vehicles were available – mostly bullock carts. They would be taken from Kandahar to Chaman, rest and resupply, and then continue from Chaman to Quetta, a journey of about 130 miles. There were some supplies loaded with them – food, water, medicines, weaponry – but space was precious. Very few personnel were undertaking the trip; men were needed to fortify and defend the citadel. This was the polite phrasing the officer used when explaining the situation to Dr. Watson and Murray. In plain speak, it meant Murray was to stay at the citadel while Watson went on to Quetta.

This concerned Murray. It was true that Dr. Watson was recovering. The infection had proved to be quite mild and equally temporary, blasted away by a solution of water and carbolic acid (5). (Though effective, Murray doubted he would ever try _that_ again. The doctor struck him as a man of great fortitude but the acid's touch made his eyes tear up and his hands clench the cot's edges until his knuckles turned white. He hadn't screamed, though the harsh moan that escaped from between his clenched teeth had been all the more horrible for it.) It was too soon to tell about the bone and ligaments.

Yes, he was healing and would probably be fine but Murray was his orderly. The very reason he was in this accursed place in the first place was his duty to Dr. Watson. He had not abandoned his duty during the battle nor in the terrible aftermath. He hated the thought of abandoning it now. There were still villagers sympathetic to Ayub's cause who would assuredly pose a threat. And though he had never done so personally, Murray strongly suspected the road conditions would make for an uncomfortable ride, and doubly so for the wounded. Moreover, he had grown rather fond of the man he served so there was concern on a personal level as well.

Watson worried about Murray's safety should there be a siege. The doctor, too, felt a duty to look after the man assigned to him. He had wanted Murray to take his service revolver but the offer was politely, firmly, declined. "You may need it yourself, sir," the orderly explained, while the look on his face said volumes more.

Watson smiled sadly, clapped Murray on the shoulder briefly, and stiffly loaded himself into the cart with his medical kit and revolver. More men piled around him, some far worse off than he. These he tried to assist into the most comfortable positions possible, given the circumstances.

Then the cart gave a lurch forward and the last Dr. Watson saw of Murray, the orderly was staring at him mournfully, the side of his face struck by the rising sun.

10:30 A.M.: 11 MILES FROM KANDAHAR

The Indian oxen pulling the carts, though hardy and used to working in such conditions, did not appear to mind a quarter-hour rest. The men escorting the train of sufferers appreciated it far more. As for the wounded in question, despite the sun gaining strength above them, the break was just short of heavenly.

At first, Watson had found the swaying and teetering of the cart on the primitive roads an annoyance. After an hour, each dip and bump jolted his shoulder and sent sharp bolts of pain through it, even with the immobilizing bandage and sling. Three hours later, the entire shoulder area was a mass of agony, in part, he suspected, because of bones misaligning. And there were still fifty or so miles between them and Chaman. As much as Watson loathed the idea, morphine might be the only recourse. He sighed and reached for his bag.

Nearby a young private broke into a coughing fit that had an ominous, "sucking" sound to it. Watson watched him carefully. "Are your ribs broken?" he asked once the coughing abated.

Panting futilely, the private nodded. Now worried, Watson dug out his stethoscope and beckoned the soldier to come closer. "Which side has the worst pain?"

In answer, the private put his hand over the left side of his ribs. "I can't draw breath," he wheezed.

"I can see that," replied Watson. He listened to a few key spots on the chest and back. The worst of his suspicions were confirmed; it was punctured lung. Already there was blood filling the lung. The private needed surgery immediately to repair the damage but that was impossible here. It would take time, supplies, and skill – none of which were available. Watson was honest enough with himself to realize he couldn't operate one-handed in his condition. The private would certainly suffocate in his own blood before Watson's very eyes before they came close to Quetta. He could not even ease the soldier's suffering because morphine depressed respiration. But how to break the news?

The private looked him full in the face. "How bad is it?"

Watson slowly replaced his stethoscope, stalling for time. "Bad enough," he said at last. "It seems you've put a rib through your lung."

"Am I going to die?"

"There's nothing I can do here," answered Watson, realizing how inadequate his words were even as he said them. The private turned away but Watson could see slow tears slipping out from his closed eyes. The broken chest hitched and he coughed again. There were flecks of blood on his lips when he turned back. Watson raged silently at his own helplessness, at the _Ghazis_ and the Ayub specifically, at the entire situation in general.

"Can . . . can you give me something for the pain, at least? Morphine?"

"It would only hasten your death," Watson answered, his voice low and slightly unsteady.

"Doctor," the private smiled humorlessly, "I'm already dying. I don't care what the poets say -- it bloody well _hurts_."

Watson could still recall, by heart, the oath he had taken when he had completed his M.D. work. He knew what it demanded of him, of every doctor. And he knew what would result if he complied with the doomed man's request for morphine.

Nevertheless, Watson found himself watching his hands dispassionately, as the hands of a stranger, fill the syringe. Those hands sought a vein, inserted the needle, depressed the plunger.

"Hugh Hendrick," the private gasped out suddenly, fighting for breath as he fought back tears. "110 Ridgeway Lane, Devon. My parents – "

"I'll tell them," Watson whispered. He sat back and watched the morphine take effect. Distantly, he noted the cart had begun moving again. Sunlight glinted off the glass of the syringe he still held in his hand and, yielding to a sudden impulse, he flung it over the edge of the cart into the desert sands.

(5) Readers, PLEASE don't try this at home! Carbolic acid, aka phenol, can cause serious burns to the skin, even when diluted.


	6. Chaman

AUGUST 2, 1880: CHAMAN, PAKISTAN (6)

2 p.m.

The oxen were led away to rest. The guides had determined that the convoy should not stop for the normal midday break with so few miles between themselves and Chaman. Mad dogs they were not, but Englishmen they were and the wounded were suffering for it. They had already lost some souls before reaching the garrison at Chaman, Private Hugh Hendrick among them. Because the convoy was so close to the city, the bodies were arranged on a single cart. To stop along the road to dig a pit large and deep enough to protect all the bodies from the elements and scavenging animals would take far too long and have the men working at the zenith of the heat.

The goal had been to rest half a day in Chaman and continue traveling in the coolness of the night. This was not to be. The wounded were once again exhausted, in pain, and desperate for water. A few were too ill or injured to live much longer. Moreover, medical supplies and sustenance had been depleted faster than anticipated. The Chaman garrison needed time to gather more while retaining enough for their own needs.

By six that evening the dead had received a respectful burial and a course of action for the remainder of the convoy was decided. Those not expected to survive would remain at the military base in Chaman, until they recovered or death took them. The rest would fill the same bullock carts and leave early the next morning.

Dr. Watson allowed the chief surgeon's assistant at the garrison to examine him briefly and listened patiently to the assistant tell him that which he already knew. The ordeal ended with the rather self-evident stipulation to rest quietly and drink plenty of water. Watson nodded compliantly but flatly refused the offer of morphine. Thus released, he spent much of the afternoon trying to find information on the situation at Kandahar. It seemed that the citadel's telegraph equipment had not been repaired so there was no news on whether Ayub Khan's forces had descended, were holding, or had changed course. For the sake of those still in Kandahar, Watson prayed it was the latter.

Yet there was a light in the darkness. No sooner had word of the Maiwand disaster reached Command that a rescue mission was formulated. General Roberts, in Kabul, and Brigadier General Phayre, in Quetta, were to march a regiment each to the garrison at Kandahar. In fact, the train of wounded and Phayre's regiment would likely see each other at the coming and going, as it were. Neither regiment had moved yet but were they preparing to leave within a week.

Somewhat relieved, Watson relaxed enough to converse quietly with his fellow sojourners over a simple dinner of rice and vegetables. The horrors of the battle were still too near for real discussion. Only a few reflective comments were tossed out sporadically: the courage of a comrade, drawing fire from the others; wonder at the fate of a friend; many colorful curses directed at the _ghazis _and at war in general. Conversation dwelled more on the situation at Kandahar, opinions of what ought to be done to about it, and speculation on the conditions they would face on the train come morning.

Sleeping quarters for the newcomers were spacious but uncomfortable. There were not enough cots or mats for everyone so many were relegated to whatever clean floor-space was available. Cleanliness, however, was no guarantee against the scorpions, snakes and all other manner of poisonous creatures native to the area.

Watson rolled up the remnants of his regimental coat and draped it over his medical kit. His revolver lay within the kit, and the whole assortment was to serve as a pillow. The placement of these was less for comfort and more a protection against theft. Stealing from a fellow soldier was considered the lowest of crimes yet it was not unknown. Watson removed his boots one-handed and contemplated how to proof them against insect invaders. The easiest way was to tuck one leg into the other, sealing off the entrances. Actually carrying this out with but one hand was a bit daunting. The other option was to put them back on, which he was loath to do. It was trouble enough to remove them, and the relief his ankle felt after wearing them for nearly two days straight was too sweet to give up.

Watson was still struggling to fit his boots together when a lieutenant came up, silently took the boots away, and fitted them together as easily as a child's picture puzzle.

"I saw you with Hendricks yesterday," the lieutenant said and handed back the boots.

"Oh," Watson replied. There was nothing else he could think to say. He took the boots slowly and placed them on the floor without breaking eye contact.

"I just wanted you to know –" the lieutenant paused, as did Watson's heart – "well, that is to say . . . thank you."

"Oh," Watson said again, in some astonishment. The lieutenant bobbed his head in what could have been acknowledgment or a much abbreviated bow. Then he moved on and Watson lay back, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.

(6) Historically speaking, Pakistan did not exist as a nation in 1880. I'm using "Pakistan" for the sake of modern-day readers.


	7. Quetta

AUGUST 5, 1880: QUETTA, PAKISTAN

4 p.m.

In true military fashion, telegraphs were sent from Chaman to Quetta explaining the situation, but by the time the response had arrived, the convoy was well on its way. There was nothing Command at Quetta could do but sit and wait for the wounded . . . and break the news to them then.

The trip itself had little to recommend it: forty-eight hours of cramped quarters and bumpy movement relieved sporadically, in hundred-degree heat during the day and near freezing temperatures at night, with nothing to stimulate the senses but mile after mile of dusty desert and the scent of unwashed, ill men. What little inclination they might have had to conversation died away quickly. To cap it all, sunburns were blossoming while sanitation plummeted.

At last the pitiful little train arrived in Quetta and chaos erupted. Brigadier General Phayre, who was supposed to lead the regiment that would relieve Kandahar, had no yet left Quetta. Transport problems and various, suddenly illnesses spreading through his troops had delayed him.

This latter problem accounted for much of the chaos. The field hospitals were overrun with men already stationed there. There simply wasn't room for more patients, which was the message relayed to Chaman too late. The newcomers would have to be sent to Peshawar, about 700 miles to the northeast(7).

Exhausted though they were, the Maiwand wounded rose up _en masse_. Travel to Peshawar? After all the hardships they had endured? How could they be expected to survive yet another journey, this one almost 700 miles? It was well for the garrison that the men were not at their full strength.

Nearly trembling with rage, Watson limped up to the chief surgeon of Quetta's army hospital – Dr. William Preston(8). "Sir, we have endured ten straight days of unspeakable hardship and wretched conditions. We are exhausted, wounded, and ill in both body and spirit. In short, we are in desperate need of immediate care. If you send to Peshawar now you sentence us to almost certain death. I cannot believe that you, a man sworn to 'keep the sick from harm and injustice,' would in good conscious sanction such a decision."

Dr. Preston took in the figure before him, from the flashing eyes and wounded arm to the journey-stained clothes and heavy limp. After a moment, his imposing stance softened and he responded with considerably gentleness, one doctor to another. "I do not doubt your assessment is accurate. Believe me, you have my utmost sympathies in that respect. However, you must realize our hospital is already taxed to the limit. To allow your convoy to stay would be to compromise the care given to all."

Watson, too, lost much of his anger but did not back down. "I can appreciate your difficulties. Nevertheless, we are in no fit condition to travel further." He paused. "Not by cart, at any rate."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"The rail has been completed between Quetta and Peshawar, has it not?" (9)

Dr. Preston grasped the meaning immediately. "Certainly, but it will take time for the army to approve such use, especially in war."

"Perhaps you might ask them how much they honor the sacrifice at Maiwand," Watson suggested, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Dr. Preston's eyebrows shot upward but forbore to comment. "I will see what can be done. In the meantime . . . "

It was now Watson's turn to raise eyebrows. "Are we to be turned out of doors?" he asked lightly.

"We will find quarters for you," Dr. Preston replied, in assured tones that marked his statement as a promise.

"Thank you." Watson turned to go, then remembered an issue that had been preying on his mind. "Has there been any word on the situation at Kandahar? Has the Ayub struck?"

Dr. Preston shook his head. "No, no word yet." Shrewdly he added, "any friends left there?"

"Yes," replied Watson simply, and went to convey the latest developments to the rest of his convoy.

(7) This is where history and Canon diverge. None of the Maiwand survivors were actually shipped to Peshawar, no matter what it says in STUDY. To compromise, I invented a reason to move them (although Phayre really was delayed for the reasons mentioned.)

(8) I had to invent this man; his name is cobbled from two real surgeons who served at Maiwand.

(9) Has it? You got me. My sources contradict each other. (But don't you think these poor guys have suffered enough already?)


	8. Peshawar

AUGUST 19, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

8:45 a.m.

The British Army as an establishment took some time to come to the decision to allow the wounded to be sent to Peshawar via rail. Meanwhile, Brigadier General Phayre and his regiments departed at last, freeing the hospital and its supplies. The wounded received adequate treatment in Quetta while waiting for word from Command. Thereafter, they were loaded into whatever passenger cars were available . . . and even some supply cars augmented with every comfort possible.

The 700 mile journey northeast to Peshawar took just over a day by rail, less time it took the bullock carts to travel 130 miles. The conditions of the transport, too, far surpassed those of the carts. The train was not entirely smooth travel but it was far, far more comfortable than any previous sojourn.

Miraculous too, the medical staff at Peshawar awaited them with plenty of available beds and supplies. Each patient was allowed to bathe away the accumulated dust and grime; each was given a fresh change of clothing that at least came close to fitting. The staff was of an adequate number and far from the stress of battle. Nearly four weeks after Maiwand, the survivors were at last able to relax, as much as was possible.

Dr. Ernest Fuller Ives (10) was head of the hospital and took it upon himself to ensure all the patients received the necessary care. An old hand at running field hospitals with nearly thirty years' experience, he himself performed the preliminary examinations of the few medical men among the wounded.

Watson's prognosis proved positive. The horrid display of livid bruises had faded to yellow smudges.

There would be scarring, of course, but both shoulder and heel were steadily healing. The broken clavicle would be completely knitted in four more weeks; the Achilles tendon and ligaments could take as long as eight more weeks. Dr. Ives did express concern about the tendon in particular. Since the fibers had been lacerated, not strained, the entire foot and leg ought to have been immobilized to prevent further damage. However, he acknowledged that complete immobilization would not have been practical during travel. Still, Ives determined (and Watson privately concurred) that a cast around the ankle and lower leg could not do any harm and may do some good. The other part of treatment was complete bedrest for at least a week, an idea which Watson did not readily take to.

Watson commented that he was willing to aid the hospital staff in any way possible during his recuperation. Ives raised a single, grizzled eyebrow knowingly. "Certainly," he said, somewhat puckishly. "We are always happy to accept assistance. At the present time we are most in need of someone to make sure the more stubborn of patients follow the recommended treatments and not push their bodies past the natural limits. I trust we can count on you in that respect?"

Watson knew a master strategist when he met one and surrendered the battle of wills. "Certainly, sir. You may count on my compliance," he replied with a knowing smile of his own. Then, as he stood to leave, he asked, "has there been any news of Kandahar?"

"Yes, none of it good, I'm afraid. Ayub Khan opened fire at the Citadel nearly ten days ago. There's been no word from those within. They could be holding up perfectly well or already dead, for all we know."

At Watson's stricken expression, Ives added, "I for one favor the former scenario. If the Afghans had taken over the Citadel we'd have heard of it by now."

"Yes," Watson said slowly, considering. "That does make sense."

Ives nodded. "I like to think so. Now off you go; I've another patient to see to." Thus dismissed, Watson left.

10 p.m.

Watson knelt by the bed of the sergeant with the crushed foot. The man had wanted a drink of water but hadn't made it a quarter of the way before the pain had aborted his mission. Fortunately for him, Watson had been making silent rounds about the ward in the dark, if a trifle slowly and stiffly. Now the sergeant, his thirst quenched, drifted back to sleep.

Suddenly a hand descended on the center of his back. Watson gave a violent start and turned to face the man behind him.

"So, Doctor," Ives said, "I trust you have a very good reason for being here when you were specifically ordered bedrest?"

"I was getting this man a drink of water," Watson replied.

"I see." Ives glanced at the sergeant. "Well, how lucky for him that you just happened to be nearby. Quite a fluke, as it were."

"Indeed, a fluke."

"I am glad to hear it. You see, if I suspected that a man were deliberately disobeying treatment, with full knowledge of the bodily harm he could cause himself, I would have no choice but to determine that he was a danger to himself. Such a patient, you understand, would have to be physically restrained. Typically, this would include tying the man in question to his bed, or even a lengthy sedation period. As a doctor, I'm sure you are already aware of this." Not giving time for a response, Ives smirked in the moonlight. "But, as you say, this incident is but a fluke and thus there is no danger this will happen again."

Outmaneuvered once again, Watson mumbled something that could have been an agreement and slunk back to his bed.

(10) Once again, this man is a figment of my imagination. His name comes from three actual surgeons who were part of General Roberts's March to Kandahar.


	9. Considerations

AUGUST 29, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

Ten days of strictly enforced bed rest was about all Watson could stand. More importantly, it was all that Dr. Ives could stand – that is to say, it was all he could stand of Watson's impatience.

"Stubborn young fool, don't expect any sympathy from me when you collapse from pushing yourself too hard," Ives growled, which was as close as he ever came to giving his blessing to a course of action of which he disapproved. In all truth, Watson knew he was in little danger of collapse. He had diagnosed his own condition accurately and besides, Ives's behavior was a veritable barometer of a patient's health. Two weeks of observation was enough to show Watson that the gruffer the chief surgeon was, the healthier the patient. If there were really any danger Ives would sooner have tied Watson to his cot than allow him up.

Despite his misgivings, Ives eventually, indirectly, admitted that allowing Watson some freedom of movement was a positive thing. For one, it was certainly good for that particular patient's morale. For another, Watson was still a capable healer and was able to help with small tasks that required minimal movement. Lastly, Watson was quite the storyteller and news-carrier, which in turn boosted the morale of the other, less mobile patients. Ives observed this from beneath his shaggy eyebrows and pondered.

AUGUST 30, 1880: PESHAWAR

5 p.m.

"Have you given any thought to what you will do as a civilian?"

Watson looked up from his lounging position on the verandah. For once, he had to crane his neck to look the man in the face, as Ives was but a few inches over five feet. "Not much," he admitted. "I must confess, when I joined the army I had planned for a career a bit longer than one year."

"Well, you'll never be fit to march again with an Achilles like that," Ives said bluntly. "Tendons and ligaments never heal all the way."

"I know," replied Watson, referring to both the marching and the anatomy lesson.

"It will be an honorable discharge. That will count for something."

Watson shrugged and looked away, jaw set. Ives harrumphed softly, realizing he had struck a still-raw nerve. "I don't suppose you could buy into a practice when you return to England?"

Watson shook his head.

"No, I suppose not," Ives said at last. If a doctor could afford to buy a practice, why on earth would he opt instead to become an army surgeon? "What about Netley?"

"What _about_ Netley?"

"A man with practical experience in wartime medicine and surgery would certainly be an asset to their training program. Doubly so if the man is already an alumni."

"Barely an alumni," said Watson, but his natural good humor was returning.

"It's certainly worth looking into. If Jack Boyd is still there I should be happy to put in a good word for you."

Watson looked back at Ives, curiously. "I would be grateful for that, sir, but I must ask, why does my future concern you so?"

The grizzled eyebrows knit together. "Why?" he roared. "Because you are fellow doctor, my boy, and a damned decent one at that! More importantly, you're a good man and I'll be dashed if I'm going to let you run the risk of becoming another broken-down veteran if it's within my power to prevent it!" Ives ended with a scowl and a curt nod, signaling the end of the conversation. Watson fought back a grin as the chief surgeon stomped his way back inside.

10 p.m.

"Dr. Ives?"

"Blast it, Doctor, no, there is still no news of Kandahar! I don't know what the devil Roberts is waiting for . . . "

"Dr. Ives!" Watson called, more emphatically.

"Hang it all! What?"

Watson dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "I believe you should look at these patients."

Ives stomped over to the six men Watson indicated. "Eh? What is it?"

"All of them have low fevers, chills, slightly slow pulses, coated tongues and general malaise," Watson murmured, not wanting to alarm them. "I spoke with the ones who are awake and they complained of headache, lack of appetite, and constipation earlier in the day."

Ives shot Watson a probing look. "Their temperatures just went up this evening?"

"Yes."

The older doctor went to work, probing and questioning but with a gentleness to his touch. "We'll have to take shifts watching them until tomorrow night."

"If their temperatures drop in the morning . . . and then rise again the next evening . . ." Watson hesitated.

"Enteric fever," Ives agreed. "You can say it. It's best we be square about this if we don't want an epidemic on our hands. First thing tomorrow, we burn anything you wounded brought from Quetta. That's probably where you picked it up, meddling with those filthy Indian relics (11). I'll put you on for the first watch, Doctor, so you can get some unbroken sleep. God knows you'll be needing it."

(11) Today we know that enteric fever (aka typhoid) is caused by poor sanitary conditions, especially with contaminated food and water. There's some literature from the 1910s suggesting doctors knew this but in STUDY Watson blames the illness on "the curse of our Indian possessions." So I'm going to assume such knowledge about typhoid didn't become widely known or accepted until a few years later.


	10. Developments

SEPTEMBER 3, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

11 a.m.

At long last, new of Kandahar reached anxious ears. General Roberts and his troops had reached that city on the 31st, only to discover the Ayub had withdrawn from Kandahar to a village but a couple miles away. The Battle of Kandahar, on September 1, lasted a scant five hours. It was a resounding victory for the British, despite plenty of casualties. It was lucky Roberts arrived when he did, for among the debris the soldier discovered homemade ladders. Undoubtedly the Afghans had planned to use them to scale the walls of the Citadel as a last resort.

For the siege had failed. Despite getting fired upon by two of its own cannons, stolen by the Afghan forces, the Citadel remained unbreached for over three weeks. Not even the constant shelling had damaged much and the men within, though a trifle hungry, were unharmed.

In celebration, the garrisons across that desert land hoisted their Union Jacks proudly. Less triumphant, however, was the news of the disastrous sortie the Citadel occupants had attempted on the sixteenth of August. Taking advantage of a lull in the shelling, several British had attacked the villages of Deh Koja and Kotal, where they believed some of their own were being held hostage. Many Afghans were killed, but so were over one hundred British. Many decapitated bodies were found and buried respectfully.

Watson prayed that Murray had not been among the one hundred. Mail lines had been re-established and Roberts's troops were hard at work repairing the telegraph poles. Watson took advantage of this. He composed a message and sent it along to Kandahar, inquiring into the status of one Henry Murray (12).

The message were quite short, as Watson's free time as limited. Enteric fever (typhoid, as it was also called) had been confirmed in the original six patients and was rapidly spreading through the men. Taking personal offense at this germ warfare being waged at his hospital, Dr. Ives demanded any and all items of Indian origin be burned. Old clothes, blankets, bandages, even some souvenirs like _jezail_ rifles and Khyber knives, were tossed onto the inferno.

But still the terrible illness progressed.

A few of the original six had deteriorated into the relatively calm delirium the high fever produced, quietly muttering and grasping at things and people who did not exist. Temporary rose spots broke out over their chests and bellies. Pulses slowed and grew erratic. Perspiration soaked through to the sheets they laid upon. Dr. Ives grumbled about the ineffectiveness of his bonfire and chalked it up to "this wretch country's atmosphere."

Typhoid, by any reckoning, is not a romantic disease. It is messy, malodorous, painful, and embarrassing. It grips the bowels arbitrarily with constipation or diarrhea. It coats the tongue, distends the abdomen, and induces a flood of perspiration. It drains its victims of energy until they are listless, twitching masses barely alive. And its effects are felt weeks, even months, after convalescence begins.

It was exhausting work, especially for a doctor with a cast to the knee and one arm in a sling. Watson reclined on a lounge on the verandah around eight that night and realized how tired he truly was. He made a few copies of his original message to be sent to the villages surrounding Kandahar. Yet he struggled to focus. His head was throbbing after the long day and he felt, generally, "off." Well, that was not surprising, given the workload and the lack of nourishment he had had. He noted, peripherally, that his throat felt dry and sore and promised himself he would drink more water on the morrow. In the meantime, he had to hurry and finish the last note. The sunlight was dying and already he was starting to feel the night chill.

"How long have you been shivering?" Dr. Ives demanded, as though such an action were a crime punishable by law. Quite uncharacteristically, he had ventured onto the verandah in silence.

"Only a minute or so," Watson answered truthfully. "I wanted to finish this last message before I went in, even if it has gotten cold out here." He gathered his supplies and started to rise.

Ives forced him back down. "It is not cold out here," he said, slowly and forcefully. "It is one of the first balmy nights we've seen all summer." Watson wasn't sure what to say to that but Ives saved him the trouble by placing a hand on his brow. Watson could not help suppress a gasp at how cold the hand felt against his own skin.

Ives gave him a long, piercing look. The gray caterpillars of his brows came together violently and he seized Watson's right wrist without ceremony. Watson was put out by the presumptuous behavior but sat quietly for the full minute. To do otherwise would have been an exercise in futility.

"Fifty-eight beats," announced Ives. "A trifle slow for you, if memory serves. Any other symptoms you'd care to disclose? Headache? Sore throat? Cough?"

"No cough, but the others could be attributed to –"

"To overwork and exhaustion?" Ives finished sardonically. He shook his head. "You stubborn young fools refuse to acknowledge your own limits. Tongue." His gesture indicated what he wanted. Watson rolled his eyes but obediently opened his mouth.

"Coated, but inflamed on the tip and edges. So tell me, Doctor, if a patient has most of the beginning symptoms of enteric fever, in the midst of what appears to be an epidemic of the same, what is the probable diagnosis?"

"Enteric fever."

"And the immediate, prescribed treatment?"

"Bed," Watson muttered. He collected his supplies again and trudged indoors, Dr. Ives bringing up the rear.

(12) Murray's first name is never mentioned in STUDY. Some people have suggested "James" but somehow I don't see it -- he's not a James. Besides, that was Moriarty's first name! I like GM's "Henry" much better. So I stole it.


	11. Typhoid

SEPTEMBER 10, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

4 a.m.

_The man on the operating table was unconscious, draped in white sheets. __The tumor protruding on his neck and chest had to be removed. Watson picked up the scalpel and cut __into the mass. Yellow light burst forth, blinding him. __It was not a tumor but a small sun. __With his bare hands, Watson lifted it out of the incision. The heat burned his hands and he released it. It hovered before him, glowing intensely. Heat radiated from it in shimmering waves, scorching his face. __Sweat__ beaded on his brow and dripped into his eyes. __Watson threw up his arm to shield his face __ and __–_

He snapped back to consciousness. The dream, with its bizarre surgery, had vanished yet the heat and perspiration remained. His hair clung damply to his forehead and his cheeks burned. Watson blinked in the darkness of very early morning, trying to recover his bearings.

His nose reminded him he was in what was now being called the "typhoid wing" of the hospital, though in reality they had merely sectioned off part of the facility in the hopes of containing the disease. One of the orderlies had commented a day or so ago that the place smelled like a bakery, a rather apt observation. Victims of enteric fever, for some inexplicable reason, gave off an odor reminiscent of newly-baked bread, or even brewery yeast. At the hottest part of the day, the smell was enough to drive a man half-mad.

At the moment, thirst was Watson's primary concern. One way enteric fever kills is by loss of fluids, though less than half the cases are ever gripped with diarrhea. Watson had been spared this dehydrating symptom but the profuse sweating and slight cough left his throat dry as Afghanistan itself.

He knew a water bucket was kept nearby, within twenty feet of him. Watson strove to sit up. His head felt strange, light, and blood pounded in his ears. Or was that someone else moving? A small light flashed into his eyes.

An orderly with a candle had apparently heard his efforts and now approached. Mindful of the dripping hot wax, he leaned down and whispered, "What is it?"

"Trying . . . to get water," Watson replied, grateful for the aid but annoyed at his helplessness.

"I'll get it. Stay there." The orderly moved away and Watson watched him by the tiny light of the candle as he traveled across the room and back again. _Stay there, indeed._

Watson accepted the offered ladle of water. It had cooled during the night, so it was far more refreshing than the water by day. "Thank you . . . what is your name again?"

"Foley, sir. Edward Foley." It was hard to tell in the dim light but Foley looked to be about eighteen or so, with sun-bleached hair and sun-browned face. "You wouldn't remember me from before. Dr. Ives put me on duty tonight since the staff is so dwindled now. But you may see me again tomorrow."

Watson handed back the ladle. "Thank you," he said again and lay back down.

"Anything else you need?"

Watson shook his head, suddenly too tired to speak. He was aware of the small light, even with closed eyes, and so he knew when Foley moved on. And then he was aware of nothing.

1 p.m.

With typhoid, the fever does not escalate steadily. It rises sharply in the late afternoon and evening, drops slowly through the night, and by morning the patient's temperature is lower than it was the previous afternoon, but still higher than it was the previous morning (13).

Hovering at a temperature between high and dangerously high, Watson quietly watched the walls dance. They were not actually dancing, of course. He was still lucid enough to realize he was hallucinating (14). Still, it was quite fascinating. One wall would ripple gently, like a ribbon in the breeze. Then the adjacent wall would shiver briskly. Then they would bulge out towards each other, nearly caressing, and undulated in a strange choreography. And then the dance began again from the beginning. Watson supposed he ought to be alarmed but he found the display soothing. So much so that he could not look away when he felt Dr. Ives taking his pulse yet again.

"Doctor. Doctor Watson!"

At last Watson tore his gaze from the walls and half-focused on the man in front of him. Ives looked as though he would like very much to start shouting. Instead, he merely released Watson's wrist and said, "Fifty-two beats, and erratic at that. How are you feeling?"

Watson mulled over the question. His mind did not care to function, that much was clear. At last he hit upon an honest answer. "Not well."

"I don't doubt that," Ives snorted. Again, he appeared to restrain himself under Watson's stare. "Well, try to get some rest, eh?"

7 p.m.

Through the fevered mists of sleep Watson was aware of someone pushing on his abdomen, a little below the ribs. The pressure was not much but the soreness it created was uncomfortable. He shifted, intending to move away.

"Easy, m'boy. Just a little more yet," a voice whispered.

The probing hands moved down a little, still pushing. This time there was fierce, aching pain. More aware now, Watson moaned and tried in earnest to move beyond the reach of his tormentor.

One of the hands rested on his arm. "All right, lad, all right," the voice said as though soothing a skittish horse. "Go back to sleep."

But the pain had awakened him. Cracking his eyes open, Watson saw Dr. Ives quietly dictating to an orderly. The words were low but clear. "Tenderness of the spleen and liver, lower abdomen distended and pained." The orderly – _what the devil was his name? Foley?_ – shot glances at Watson until Ives turned to see what was so absorbing. "Go back to sleep, lad," he said gently. "We'll see you out of this right enough."

Watson shut his eyes, not out of any sleepiness, but out of a growing fear. Dr. Ives – gentle? Soothing? This was a sign more worrying than the pain or fever.

(13) For example, (and I'm using the Fahrenheit thermometer) 99.4 degrees in the morning, 103 in the evening, 100.1 the next morning, 104 that night. (Random info: this is called "laddering.")

(14) According to a friend who's actually had fever-induced hallucinations, this is possible.


	12. Dreams

_More authorial notes you may read or ignore: Just to set the record straight, Dr. Ives's character was inspired by Colonel Potter from "MASH", Dr. Winters from ACD's short story "Behind the Times", and Dr. Burnley from L.M. Montgomery's "Emily of New Moon." __House never entered my mind, __honest, though I can see some __resemblance now__Ed__ Foley is yet another made-up OC_

_This chapter contains images which may be disturbing to younger or sensitive viewers. Reader discretion is advised.__ (Put it this way: I'm somewhat distressed __and it's MY __imagination_

SEPTEMBER 13, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

_Ich dien. _

_Q__uo fata vocant_ (15).

_Ich dien._

_Quo fata vocant._

_Ich dien._

_Quo fata vocant._

It was an odd combination, the guttural German and the fluid Latin, yet together they made a compelling cadence. It was enough to partially distract him from the sharp, stabbing intestinal pain, though the pain was by no means slight.

_Ich dien._

_Quo fata vocant._

The phrases swirled in his ears, inescapable. They pressed on him, through him, speeding up.

_Ich dien quo fata vocant. _

_ Ich dien quo fata vocant. _

_Ich dien quo fata vocant._

They could stop the pain entirely, if only they kept going. But they couldn't stop. They had to keep going, or else the pain would continue onwards and evermore. How he knew this, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he had to keep the words from stopping, even if the sounds of them drove him to madness. He whispered along, though it caused him to cough slightly:

_Ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant ich dien quo fata vocant_

He caught his breath. The world had gone deafening silent. He stared at the young man hovering above him and gasped out, "They're gone? The words stopped?"

The other man answered shakily, "Yes. Yes, it's all right. They're gone."

Watson belatedly recognized the dream was nonsense but could not repress a moan. He was on his own now and the pain and fever were as intense as ever. Helpless and miserable, he curled up on his side and slipped into an uneasy slumber.

Edward Foley's hands shook slightly so he waited for it to stop before he continued the haircuts.

So many patients had progressed into the second stage of enteric fever. Several had developed complications such as intestinal hemorrhage and cardiac distress. A few had already died. In a last ditch effort to help lower their fevers, Dr. Ives resorted to an old-fashioned treatment: shingling. All patients who were progressing into stage two or who were already there were to have their hair cut as closely to their scalps as possible. The intent was to remove any body heat that might be trapped in by the hair (16). It fell to the orderlies to carry this command out.

But not even Ives could have prepared them for the physical and emotional difficulties in shingling the patients. A restless patient could choose to roll over or strike out accidentally at the orderly at just the wrong moment. Equally dangerous was a patient in a desperate search for a cool area of pillow. Then there were the soft cries and pleas of the delirious. Were the ramblings to be humored or ignored? They did the best they could but they knew it wasn't enough to help these men. Still troubled, Foley waited for the doctor to lie still again before resuming his duty.

SEPTEMBER 15, 1880: PESHAWAR

_Maiwand._

_Forever that name would be linked with destruction and chaos, defeat and death. Forever. Would he, too, be trapped here forever, ever and always surrounded by the heat and choking dust, tortured by the sounds and sights of those he could not help in time?_

_He couldn't see and he couldn't breathe. Stumbling and coughing – gasping, really – he maneuvered his way through the fighting. It was odd. As the events of battle continued, he seemed to recognize all of what was happening, almost _déjà vu._ And yet he couldn't recall what would come next; it perpetually surprised him._

_There was a half-fainting __soldier in front of him, __against a background of cloudy yellow and gray, __guiding a camel while blood gushed from his wrist. Small wonder – the wrist itself was virtually ripped open. He applied a tourniquet at the elbow._

_"Any time now, sir, we'll be seeing a sign that says 'Abandon a__ll hope, ye who enter here,' " Murray muttered to him.__Watson turned away from the soldier to look at his orderly. Sure enough, the sign in question hovered over his head. It was written in blood so dark it was nearly black: arterial blood. It was still __wet and glistening. Droplets plopped onto the sands beneath, spattering both Murray and Watson with gore. _

_And then droplets turned into jezails, piercing and shredding all they touched. __He dodged. More pattered around him, exploding into small bursts of hot, glittering metal. __Watson cried out as they struck his shoulder, his stomach, his ankle. Hot agony__ bloomed on contact. __He could feel each tiny fragment under his skin, __within his body, __grinding into him.__ He inhaled; they stabbed his lungs_

_Murray cried out also. Jezails had hit __him__ in the face, the chest. __The muscles were lacerated down to the bone__ and blood pooled out in thin, tiny streams. "Help me – please –" __he pleaded__ through ruined lips__. Watson reached towards him . . ._

"Steady, lad, steady," Dr. Ives whispered. "It's only a fever dream." Gently he extricated his sleeve from Watson's vice-like grip. It was an encouraging sign that he let go but he still trembled with fright, eyes wide and glassy, face deeply flushed, his breath ragged.

"Murray," he panted, "hurt. Still alive? Wounded . . . badly. Alive?"

"It was a dream," repeated Ives patiently. "You only dreamed he was hurt. Murray is fine, and very much alive."

Watson stared up at him, intensely. The week-long struggle with high fever left him looking far younger than twenty-seven but his eyes, paradoxically, seemed to have aged a decade. "You're sure?" he asked at last.

"Quite sure," Ives said firmly, though he did not even know who this "Murray" might be. Watson gave a shuddery sigh of relief and closed his eyes. Residual tremors still wracked his body but his respiration was evening. Ives had observed enough patients to realize when sleep was imminent. "Wait a moment, Doctor. I need to you drink this first."

He mixed the powder into a cup of water and guided it to the patient. Watson was still aware enough to grimace at the bitter taste. Ives responded to his questioning look rather than any spoken word. "Yes, quinine again. Don't worry, I'm not giving you enough to cause cinchonism (17). I'd rather have you risk it for its advantages anyway."

"Wasn't worried," was the murmured response. Watson released the cup more than he handed it back and was asleep again before Ives could say anything more.

(15) _Ich dien_ is German for "I serve" and is the motto of the 66th Berkshires. _Quo fata voca__nt_ is Latin for "whither the fates lead" and is the motto of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. (A virtual-reality sovereign to everyone who deduces why I chose these particular phrases.)

(16) It sort of makes sense. A lot of body heat gets lost through the head, which is why wearing a hat in winter so effective at staying warm. Mary Ingalls (sister of Laura Ingalls Wilder) was shingled when she had scarlet fever.

(17) Cinchonism is a side-effect of quinine. The symptoms include flushed and sweaty skin, headache, confusion, nausea and vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal pain, and dizziness – in short, everything typhoid patients DON'T need. Quinine itself reduces fever, alleviates pain, eases muscle aches and tastes absolutely nasty. (A lot like aspirin or Tylenol dissolving on your tongue. Thank you, biology class.)


	13. Sinking

_In reference to the cliffhanger: Please do not throw rotten fruit at the author. Fresh fruit is much tastier._

SEPTEMBER 18, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

8 a.m.

At long last the monetary allotment from the Army arrived and Dr. Ives wasted no time in spending it on supplies, especially camels. Specifically, she-camels with young. The food of choice for typhoid patients, according to the textbooks, was milk, some milk-derivatives and meat juice or broth. Presumably the books meant cow's milk and beef but camels were far easier to come by in the East and served just as well. Granted, the milk tasted a bit like slightly salty skim milk and the yogurt was a faint greenish color. Camel meat was much like coarse beef and so its broth was not so strange to the palate.

Now, the hospital needed to expand their foodstuff to include meat, rice, almonds, eggs, and bread for the new convalescents. Milk toast, fillets of meat, and variations of blancmange (18) were to be their main sources of nourishment for a good long while.

Meanwhile, there were plenty of patients still gravely ill. The worst of these lay motionless and exhausted, eyelids at half-mast, slowly wasting away. All were badly dehydrated, even the fifty percent or so who had escaped the debilitating and humiliating diarrhea of late-stage enteric fever. Then there were the complications, as always. Intestinal bleeding was the most common. Peyer's patches (glands within the intestine) enlarged, hardened, and sloughed off their outer layers. As a result, ulcers formed and eroded blood vessels. Usually the bleeding was slight, healing quickly. Occasionally the hemorrhages required surgery, provided they were caught in time.

Other complications were equally dangerous. As the voluntary muscles atrophied, so too did the already-strained heart. Add to it respiratory distress, high fever, and general exhaustion, and the patient had the makings of imminent cardiac distress, or failure.

Dr. Ives moved his stethoscope from the upper left quadrant of the chest to the right. No matter where he listened, there was gurgling and crackling in the lungs. No strength to cough, a bad sign. There was a chance it could develop into pneumonia . . . provided the patient lived that long. Ives moved the stethoscope again, to just left of the sternum. The heart sounded labored, hardly surprising. The rhythm was slow, weak, and irregular. Ives debated the wisdom of dosing him with strychnine (19) and decided against it. It was too risky this close to typhoid state.

It was inevitable: constant twitching; darting, unfocused gazes; constant and uncontrollable plucking and grasping at the bedclothes and imaginary objects; near coma-like existence. It was the last stage before recovery or death. And it was already starting.

Looking every minute of his fifty-nine years, Ives removed the stethoscope and sighed heavily. Decades of healing had taught him not to take cases to heart but seeing a fellow medical man, and one young enough to be own his son, brought to this . . . well, it hurt. He gently squeezed the limp hand on the sheet. "I'm not giving up on you, so don't you consider it either," he whispered, with a touch of his old imperialism.

Watson showed no sign of response, remaining fevered and motionless. Ives looked at him a moment longer before making his decision.

9 a.m.

"But, sir, we're not allowed to – "

"It will be on my head; attend to your own affairs," Ives snarled at Foley. Mail addressed to John H. Watson, M.D. sat in his hands, undelivered because of the outbreak. It was illegal, immoral, and possibly unnecessary but Ives needed to know if the "Murray" Watson kept mentioning was a next of kin. If so, he would be contacted and kept abreast of Watson's condition.

Showing no hesitation, Ives tore open the first message. It was a brief telegram, only five words, but it was what Ives had been looking for: AM ALIVE PLEASE RESPOND. MURRAY. The records showed it had come from Kandahar about a week after the siege had lifted. Though that was almost two weeks ago, odds were Murray, whoever he was, would still be there.

The second and third pieces of mail were letters in response to Watson's own messages about Murray. Ives merely scanned them, not wishing to delve too deeply into private matters, but learned enough to realize that Murray was not a relative but a subordinate. How indicative of the doctor's character that he had fretted over the fate of the man assigned to him. In short, Murray was alive. He had received a minor cut to the face as a result of shrapnel but was otherwise unharmed. However, as Watson was expected to be given a full discharge, Murray had been reassigned and was continuing to serve in Kandahar.

The fourth piece of mail was another telegram from Murray, with yesterday's date, showing obvious concern about the lack of communication from Peshawar. Satisfying both his own conscience and regulations, Ives responded : DR WATSON VERY ILL STOP WHO IS NEXT OF KIN. Now all he could do was wait.

Ives hated waiting.

SEPTEMBER 22, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

9 p.m.

_Time no longer existed. No past, no future, only an endless Now that stretched into eternity. It was hard to think. There was pain and heat, yes, but they were so far away, buffered. Once or twice he was aware of someone nearby, of words he could not recognize. Thoughts crawled like slugs through his brain, painfully slowly. _

_A few stood out with startling clarity before dissipating into the black mists. __One of them was a recognition of his own name, which took a moment to register. Soon after it was the thought, _I should respond._ He couldn't remember if he had or not__, or if he had, in what manner._

I'm dying.

_That was the clearest thought of all. He felt no emotion attached to it, only a simple certainty, as matter-of-fact as__ saying__, "Today is Tuesday." He was dying__. Eventually__ that thought faded like smoke and he was left __alone __in the dark Now._

_And then __even that __faint consciousness of __Now__ faded away too, and he __was aware of nothing._

Ives gently stilled the restless, grasping hands but did not try to wake him. Watson was too far gone for that, the torpor too deep and encompassing. It was not a true coma, but he no longer responded to outside stimuli.

Murray had replied promptly, saying the doctor's closest relative, his brother, was unable to be found though there were some more distant relatives in Scotland. Ives answered that he would "send word if the worst." It galled Ives to no end, but he feared it would come to that.

Normally stage two typhoid appeared ten days or so after the initial onset of the disease. In Watson's case, it had been delayed by nearly half a week. It was not an unheard of occurrence but it was not common and it was not an encouraging sign. Those extra days spent at war with the fever could very well have sapped his strength beyond its recovery point. And stage two could be expected to last at least a full week before a patient showed signs of recovery.

"Why do they do that?" whispered Foley, indicating how Watson and some of the other patients were plucking at the sheets (20).

Ives sighed. "Maybe they're trying to cling to life."

(18) Today it's a dessert like custard or panna cotta. Back then, it was a bland stew of milk, almond milk or flavoring, rice flour, sugar, chicken or fish, and optional rosewater. Doesn't that sound yummy.

(19) Yes, it's a poison but it in very small amounts it was used to treat heart ailments. Just like belladonna.

(20) "Typhoid state" is not limited to typhoid alone but I have yet to find a confirmed clinical reason as to why people in typhoid state do that. It's as good a reason as any.


	14. Lysis

_I love Ives too. I'd marry that man except he'd probably drive me crazy __unless __I was sick/hurt/dying. That, and he's fictional. Yeah. It never would've worked out. (LOL)_

SEPTEMBER 28, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

10 a.m.

Some diseases – scarlet fever, typhus, pneumonia – have a crisis, or turning point. It is the point of no return. Either the patient begins a notable recovery or succumbs to death. If it is the former, generally the fever reduces greatly and the patient falls into a deep, long, healing sleep to awaken somewhat refreshed and of a much more normal temperature.

Naturally, enteric fever is not so accommodating.

In typhoid, there is no crisis. The changing of the condition is subtle, slow. There is still delirium as the fever dissipates and the symptoms can linger for over a week. Relapses, both major and minor, are fairly common and the patient can easily lose the ground it took a week to gain. Nevertheless, once the tipping point towards recovery is reached, fatalities are incredibly rare . . . though the convalescence period can last weeks, even months.

On the sixth day after Watson entered stage two of the disease, Ives noted the languidly restless typhoid state was interspersed with long periods of quiet unconsciousness. He had resumed a slight cough which cleared his lungs a bit. His temperature was still very high but the fever did seem to have abated a degree or two. Pulse was still very slow and nowhere near as steady as it ought to be. Even so, Ives was greatly cheered by the miniscule improvements. "There now, I told you I'd see you out of this," he smugly said to the patient, as though Watson had contradicted him the first time.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

7 p.m.

_Curse__ th__is__ desert!__ Dry__, scorching__ heat everywhere__ without a particle of shade. __His mouth and throat were equally parched and a hot sweat sat on his brow, offering no relief. He continued to trudge forward, though __he was dog-tired. All at once cool wetness touched his face. __Rain – miraculous rain. It was unbelievably refreshing. He tilted his head __backward to catch more of it. And that was when he saw it. It was not rain._

_Someone was standing over him, dousing him in a putrid mixture of __evil-smelling __filth and foulness__, slimy and green__. He uttered a low __sound of repulsion__, turning his head and throwing his arm up to protect his face. __The disgusting wetness was still dripping on him. He tried to run; it followed. No matter where he turned, he could not escape. _

_At last he gave a wild cry and tried to spring at who__m__ever it was that was so intent on covering him with the watery slime. __He was barely a match for the other man, so weak was he, but he was desperate to keep the wetness from touching him._

"Dr. Ives!"

The surgeon turned to see Foley trying to calm down a rather frantic Watson, who seemed determined to keep the wet bath sponge from his person. As he approached, he noted the patient's wild, unfocused eyes and the desperate set to his jaw. It took Ives but a moment to realize he was delirious. "What happened?"

"I don't know, sir," Foley cried. Gamely, he tried to get Watson to stop struggling and lie back. "I was following your orders, sponging him down, when he . . . well, he went crazy."

For a man who had come within a hair's breadth of death, Watson had a remarkable amount of fight left in him. Even so, he could do himself a great deal of harm if he kept it up. Ives seized both wrists, even the one still in the sling, and forced them down over Watson's head. "Lie still, you damned fool!" he shouted.

Perhaps it was because of the rough treatment that Watson obeyed. His eyes lost their frenzied look and he seemed to have an awareness of his surroundings once more. Watson stared at up at Ives, brow furrowed as if confused. He gaze went to one of the hands gripping his wrist, then back at the man bent over him. "Why are you covered in snakes?" he asked, unalarmed but puzzled.

Ives loosened his grip slightly. "Because you're hallucinating."

The furrow of concentration increased. "Again?"

"Yes, again!" Ives snapped. " You're running a high fever, in case you haven't noticed. Foley here is trying to cool you down, and he would be most obliged if you'd lie still and let him do his job." Ives watched as Watson appeared to consider the words, then nod slowly, in a contemplative manner. Cautiously, Ives released the wrists and Watson was able to lower his arms.

"Lie still," he ordered one last time and curtly nodded at Foley. The orderly looked less than eager to continue but Ives had already left. Gingerly he approached Watson again.

The patient in question stared apprehensively at the small basin of water. "What is that?"

Startled, Foley glanced down at the basin just to confirm its contents. "Just water, sir."

Watson closed his eyes and relaxed. "Good."

(21) "Lysis" is the medical term for the slow, gradual breaking of fever – what you see in typhoid recovery.


	15. Recovery

OCTOBER 5, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

10 a.m.

Dr. Ives paused during the medical examination periodically to scribble a few notes for his official report. He muttered them as he wrote, partly out of old habit and partly out of consideration for Watson. To be poked and prodded while half-clad is never a pleasant experience for the patient and even less so when the patient knows exactly what each test is, what the results ought to be, and the implications of what the results actually were.

Now Ives noted that the swelling around the spleen and liver was gone but Watson winced when he probed lower. "Still tender?" At Watson's nod, Ives smiled without humor. "That is the nature of the beast, I'm afraid. The effects will linger quite a while."

"I know," Watson replied, resigned to facts but rebellious in spirit. Nearly all the medical books agreed that delicate digestion was one of the longest lasting after-effects, and it was the one he supposed would be the most irksome.

Ives stopped to jot notes, a wave of his hand indicating Watson could sit up at last. "All right, breathe deeply."

"The coughing is gone, as is the rhonchi (22)," the younger man said quickly.

Over glaring eyes, Ives raised an eyebrow. "When you are the one wielding the stethoscope, then I will take your word for it. In the meantime, do as I ask and do not to deafen me with needless words while I work."

Watson obeyed the letter of the command, if not the spirit. Finished with the lungs, Ives moved the 'scope to the sternum. Watson felt it was monstrously unfair that he could not hear his own heart, though he could feel the rhythm speed up slightly from nerves. It was the one part of his own diagnosis of which he was unsure. Ives had been blunt about his near brush with cardiac distress, and he knew as well as any doctor how much all the muscles weaken and atrophy during enteric fever.

"Not too bad," Ives said at last. "No permanent damage. I fear a rugby match is out of the question for a while but you'll do."

Watson nodded but went limp with relief. That left only his left shoulder and Achilles tendon to worry about. Ives had refused to let him remove the sling until he had begun to convalesce.

Now the older surgeon went to work, unwrapping the bindings. He frowned over the way the clavicle had healed. "I suppose that in the circumstances at the time, whoever set this did the best he could," was Ives's grudging admission, running his fingers along the uneven knobs of bone.

"Would you suggest re-breaking and re-setting?" Watson asked quietly. The response was a knowing look, as though Ives could sense the dread behind the question.

"Only if you're anxious to spend another two months with one good arm," he answered with asperity. "If I were in such a position I, for one, should prefer to see how functional the shoulder and arm were first before submitting myself to further trauma. However, as it is _your_ anatomy we are discussing, not mine . . ."

"Immediate re-breaking will not be necessary."

"As you wish." Only Ives could have infused such a phrase of compliance with such sarcasm. But as biting as his words were, Ives was ever the professional in action. He gently manipulated the limb, stopping immediately at any sign of pain.

Meanwhile, Watson was acutely aware of how stiff his shoulder had grown, and that not all the discomfort could be chalked up to inactivity. A man could not have two ligaments pierced without some permanent loss of movement. And it disturbed him, more than he cared to mention, that the splintered bullet that had nearly cost him his life would remain within his body forever, buried somewhere between bone and muscle. He suppressed a shiver.

"You will not regain full use of this arm, though you may come close," Ives said quietly. "But I think you already know that."

"Yes."

"And you will most likely find it an inconvenient barometer," added Ives, as he went back to scribbling notes.

"At least it will be a portable barometer."

Ives barked a short laugh, surprised into it. "Indeed, indeed. Now, about that tendon . . ." He tapped a finger against his mouth, considering.

"The nine week mark won't be for a few days yet."

Ives nodded. "You've put no strain on it for the past few weeks, possibly making up for the strain you put on it immediately following the original injury."

"I may be discharged within the next three weeks. It will be difficult to remove the cast while traveling or even afterwards," Watson added, knowing it was an important point but also enjoying complicating Ives's deliberations.

Ives gave an absent wave of his hand in acknowledgement. "If you can tolerate the cast for a few more days –" Watson nodded, though his permission was not looked for – "I'll remove it then and simply add a supplemental report."

"That sounds reasonable," commented Watson, more under his breath as he knew full well Ives had already decided on a course of action. He eased himself off the examination table and clutched it suddenly as his head went light and his vision temporarily darkened. "Damn," he muttered. He kept forgetting the intense weakness of early recovery.

Ives was at his side in an instant, pushing him back down. "Stubborn fool."

"I don't intend to be bed-ridden for my entire convalescence!" Watson snapped.

"It certainly wouldn't hurt if you were!" returned Ives. "Especially since it has not even been a week since you were out of your head with fever."

Watson only glared, annoyed with himself as much was he was with Ives. The older doctor, understanding and used to such behavior from scores of other patients, ignored it and finished his notes.

"I'd say your temperature is low enough to move you off the milk diet." Ives paused and raised an eyebrow. "Unless you have a particular fondness for it and would care to continue?"

Watson debated maintaining his dark mood but his innate sense of the absurd triumphed. Laughing slightly, he said, with utter sincerity, "I think I could live the rest of my life quiet happily if I never tasted camel's milk again."

(22) Medical term for crackling or gurgling in the lungs


	16. Release

_Supersized chapter to make up for post__ing late yesterday and today__. (Not that I'm __too __sorry; I was at the chiropractor and my back feels SO much better!) There is uber-angst up ahead, so be warned._

OCTOBER 12, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

3 p.m.

The touch of lukewarm water and English soap was a small bit of heaven on earth. It had been so long since Watson had had a real, proper bath he had nearly forgotten the small joy of it. That went doubly so for the feel of fresh, clean clothes against the skin. Some of the soldiers who could afford the expense (23) had put in requests for, and received – wonder of wonders – new uniforms. However, Watson had foregone wearing his until his official medical review, which was to take place within the hour.

He had his doubts about the sizing. The cut of the new clothes seemed far too small but Ives had silently stared him down when he ventured to comment. To his surprise, the trousers and shirt fit exceptionally well. This was somewhat frightening in its implications. Only half-dressed, he glanced at himself in the mirror and froze in shock. Then, determined to know the worst of it, he straightened, unbuttoned his shirt, and faced the mirror full on.

It was rather ghastly. The hasty shingling had left his hair uneven, nearly bald in some areas with scraggly spikes in others. His face had gone quite hollow and ashen despite his fading suntan, and his eyes were sunken with dark smudges beneath them. The left clavicle's improper alignment showed clearly, at least to his trained eyes, and the fresh scar over it was livid red. He could not help but hold the shoulder stiffly; he had tried not to but the discomfort proved too great. He had been athletically slim at the university; now he could see he had lost two stone, maybe two and a half (24). Much of his muscle tone was gone. The right Achilles tendon he and Ives had evaluated a few days prior, and concluded that while most of the range of motion would probably return, it would be permanently compromised, especially when stressed.

Watson looked away. He had never counted vanity among his vices but he knew he had been considered handsome in his schooldays – that is, if the attention for the fairer sex was any indication. Resolutely, he looked back. He still needed a shave. That stubble was hardly regulation. However, the simple ablutions and dressing had tired him to the point of tremors. And steady hands were of the utmost importance in such an undertaking.

With precision timing, Foley knocked on the wall and entered timidly. "Dr. Ives asked me to see if I could be of assistance to you."

"_Ives_ said that?"

Foley smiled shyly. "I think his exact words were, 'Go make sure that stubborn young fool doesn't cut his own throat trying to shave.'"

"That sounds like Ives," Watson said, laughing slightly. Then, looking with askance at the young man's still-smooth cheeks, he asked casually, "Have you much experience with a razor?"

Showing some hidden fires himself, Foley answered, impishly, "On myself, no. On others, plenty. My father was a barber in Manchester."

Watson willingly admitted Foley was as capable with a razor as he himself was with a scalpel. As he waited for the review board to convene in the far wing of the field hospital, he couldn't help but rub a hand through his hair, or rather, along it. Foley had apologized profusely for the rushed shingling and did his best to even it out. The results were uniform if alarming short.

At last the summons arrived. He entered and stood "at attention" before the panel of three army doctors (25). The eldest of the three, sitting in the middle, nodded at him in a friendly manner. "At ease, Doctor." Watson complied, stepping to the side with one foot and folding his hands behind his back.

"My colleagues and I have received and looked over the supplemental report from Dr. Ernest F. Ives, dated the ninth of this month," the eldest assured him. "We have taken it into account when reviewing your case."

"Yes, sir." Watson knew what had gone into the supplement; he himself had suggested a few phrases.

"It is the opinion of this board that you be given a full medical discharge immediately, for reasons of woundings during combat, resulting in unsuitable physical condition." It was the correct official phrasing, objective and impersonal, and yet Watson felt his throat tighten. The word "unsuitable" hit home especially hard.

"In light of the contraction of enteric fever, especially in conjunction with the aforementioned woundings, this board recommends that you be given a period of ten months on full wound pension to dedicate to convalescence. The pension itself shall amount to four pounds, six (26) a week during this convalescent period. After ten months, your case will be reviewed again to determine the level of recovery achieved and to re-evaluate the amount of pension to be paid out afterwards. During the period of convalescence, you will refrain from seeking or obtaining employment that is of a military nature." Watson realized Ives must have included a note about Netley in the report and wished he had the freedom to scowl openly. "Seeking or obtaining employment that is of a military nature during the allotted ten months will be interpreted as a sign that the convalescent period is unnecessary, and may be used as the basis for a fraud investigation. However, following the second review, the board may determine that you are capable of returning to such employment and reverse this decision."

_So there was hope for Netley__ after all_ The speaker stopped and peered at Watson, who remained impassive outwardly. He continued.

"The medical discharge will be granted the thirteenth of October, 1880, and you are scheduled to leave for England from Karachi on the _Orontes_. It departs on the twenty-first of this month." He paused again, then added, "That means you will have to leave Peshawar tomorrow."

Watson nearly broke protocol by speaking. Tomorrow? So soon? He couldn't possibly! No, he realized dully, he could and he would. He had no choice whatsoever in the matter.

Watson was dismissed with courtesy, even a little sympathy, but he barely registered it. He had known, intellectually, all along that he would be discharged. To have it actually happen was just short of crushing. It was not the money – a man could live comfortably on four pounds a week – it was the lack of purpose and subsequent ennui he would have to endure.

In a dull black mood, he slipped back to his quarters via the longer route, avoiding any potential conversation. It should not have taken him long to pack but he drew out the task, carefully arranging his few belongings into his knapsack and valise. Twilight arrived when at last he concluded he could delay no more. Watson was not hungry but k new if he did not seek out food, Ives would seek him out to discover why.

Indeed, the man in question waylaid Watson on route to the mess. "It was a discharge then?"

"Medical discharge, full pension, ten months of strict inactivity to be dedicated to convalescence," Watson repeated unenthusiastically. "Which means I cannot even think of seeking employment at Netley until next August at the earliest."

Ives had the grace to look slightly stricken. "Ah, well . . . well, it is a lesson not to put all of one's eggs in one basket, I suppose. When do you depart?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" roared Ives. "A nice development that is! And how, pray, do they expect you to not relapse with the breakneck pace of travel they will no doubt force upon you? To treat a soldier and gentleman so shabbily . . . It is no wonder Army manners are a laughingstock across the Empire! And you, sir," he said, turning on Watson, "you've known for a few hours now. Were you planning on informing me of this development at some point _before_ you left?"

"I'm sorry," Watson murmured, more tired in spirit than in body. Also, his attention was diverted by a nearby conversation concerning the situation in Afghanistan following the Battle of Kandahar.

"All I say is, let the Ayub run for the hills. His nephew is still here, ain't he? He's our man through and through, from what I hear, and he's got the reins of this country now."

"Abdur Rahman Khan has no love lost between himself and his uncle, but I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Let him come through with his promises for aid and money first. He's no more than a fat slug in a turban(27). I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he stabbed us in the backs first chance he gets. And then what, eh? We're back to where we were before this bloody war began. All this and all for naught."

A blank, dead look suddenly came into Watson's eyes as the news sunk in. He left the mess in a blind daze, allowing his feet to take him where they would. Stumbling a little, he made his way to the verandah but kept going, clambering over the rail and huddling beneath the wooden deck. It hurt, curling his knees to his chin and hugging them tightly, but he couldn't help himself. It was a wounded animal's instinct to hide from the world until all was well.

All for naught.

He remembered his first surgery in this God-forsaken land, and the first time he had been forced to operate on a friend. The first time a patient of his died and the dead man's cooling blood on his hands was almost more than he could bear.

He remembered the comrades of the brigade, friends out of necessity, fighting madly the melee of Maiwand, their bodies hacked to ribbons by the Khyber knives of the enemy while he tried to save whom he could. It was not the horror of the blood and body parts but his inability to help them that haunted him.

He thought of Murray, faithful and kind, somehow surviving the hunger and terror of Kandahar's siege. Murray, who would not be permitted to leave until his tour of duty was over, regardless of any valor he showed.

And he thought of himself, finally indulging in the luxury of self-pity. An educated young man, now broken in body and spirit with no hopes or prospects, no future, no purpose.

So many lives lost, so much pain and horror and filth and hardship, for a few scraggly acres of desert nobody wanted. And then nothing to show for it, not even the land in question.

It was all for naught.

The sobs surprised him. They were deep and wild, a strange wailing he didn't know he could make, or indeed, that any human could make. Still, he had no wish to quiet them. They suited his rage and grief at the situation he was in, at the situation they were all in. He would have welcomed being suddenly transformed into an erupting volcano, if only for the release.

All for naught.

He wondered if this was what madness was like, if he had genuinely lost his mind. He had an overwhelming desire to scream at the desert and faintly-starred night sky over it until his throat was raw and bloody. In the end, though, he remained with his face buried in his knees until the keening sobs gave way to quieter tears. These slowly dwindled into ragged gasps.

His eyes felt gritty and it was difficult to keep them open. Watson weighed the options of going back to his cot or spending the night where he was. The sensible choice would be to go back; the Afghan nights were decidedly frigid and he could very well freeze where he sat. On the other hand, the physical and emotional exhaustion were compelling reasons to stay put. He wasn't sure he had the strength to move, let alone the will.

"Are you quite finished?"

Ives's voice, drifting out from verandah, was kindly, without a trace of sarcasm or disgust. Nevertheless, Watson's first instinct was to curl up tighter, to withdraw further into hiding and hope for the intrusion to disappear. Or perhaps he could die from sheer humiliation; that certainly seemed a viable option at the moment.

"If you are, you are more than welcome to come back inside. That is, unless you have need for a pistol, in which case I suggest you stay where you are and be quick and quiet about it."

Watson did not understand the implications or the black undertone of the last statement, and responded in a voice so thick and congested he barely recognized it as his own. "Whatever would I need a pistol for?"

He heard Ives's boots thud overhead and then a short, low guffaw. "Ah, Doctor, you put a jaded, suspicious old man like me to shame. Whatever for, indeed."

There was a long pause and then, gently, "You'll be all right, lad. I daresay there is a special providence for fools like us. A man with your character can't help but rise like cream in buttermilk, no matter the circumstances. "

Ives's boots clumped again, away from the railing, then stopped. "Come in when you're ready but try to be ready quickly. If you catch pneumonia from sitting out in the night air I'll have you charged with insubordination."

About an hour later he spotted Watson on his cot, somewhat reddened with cold but sleeping peacefully.

(23) Yes, soldiers were expected to purchase, out of pocket and without reimbursement, their own equipment, weaponry, and uniforms.

(24) A stone is 14 pounds, so we're talking a weight loss of 28-35 pounds here.

(25) OK, seriously, I have no idea if this is accurate. I can't find anything on HOW medical discharges were given.

(26) That is to say, four pounds and one sixpence, which is a grand total of 966 pence a week. It was a decent sum for a man to make back then, especially if all he had to do was recover his health. Miss Sutherland from "Case of Identity" made only about 150 pence a week, and "could do very nicely" on it. (And do you know how much math I had to do to convert STUDY's "11 shillings and a sixpence a day" to get this total?! Old British money is crazy, man, completely crazy.)

(27) The views expressed by this character do _not_ reflect the views of the author. It is included for the sake of verisimilitude.


	17. Farewell

_"__Yes, I fear the reaction is already upon me__"__ – I don't want the story to end either so I've subconsciously put up a writer's block__, hence the delayed update__. But I know about it, so maybe it's not that subconscious. Anyway, __this is the last you'll see of Ives (for this story__) so feel free to savor it_

_(Which is why I've kept it short__. A Canon character is going to make an appearance shortly and I don't want him competing with Ives_

OCTOBER 13, 1880: PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

8:51 a.m.

Watson slung his knapsack onto his back and looked around the field hospital one last time. His cot had already been stripped bare and was ready for the next occupant. Outside, Ives waited with folded arms. He nodded at Watson when the latter finally appeared.

"It was good to have you here, barring the circumstances," he said.

Watson smiled. "It was good being here, apart from the war and the typhoid and such."

Ives nodded again, absently. Then he dropped his arms and looked Watson full in the face. "I am very sorry I read your mail while you were ill. It was inexcusable and I hope you can forgive me."

"Mail . . . oh!" Watson had completely forgotten about that. He had been very weak and just barely coherent when Ives first confessed his transgression and delivered the violated mail. Watson had been more preoccupied with the news of Murray and getting a message to him to care much about his other mail. "Yes, of course. I have no hard feelings about that all. I'm rather grateful, to tell the truth."

"You've really nothing to be grateful for about that," Ives growled, but with no real rancor. "By rights, you ought to have me brought up on charges and shot."

Something in the phrase struck Watson's memory. "Last night . . ."

Ives raised an eyebrow but waited patiently.

"Last night, when you said . . . about the pistol . . . did you really think that I . . . that I would . . . kill . . ."

"My boy," Ives interrupted, sounding both weary and sincere, "I have been an army surgeon longer than you've been alive. I've seen men crumble like dry leaves under pressure. I've seen men thrive where they have no business surviving. There was an assistant surgeon some years back with all the strength and personality of wet gruel. Yet in the midst of gunfire he was the finest surgeon I have ever known, cool as ice while the bullets whizzed around us. Then there was another doctor under me, a big bear of man, strong and silent. He lasted one round of battlefield surgery before he went out and hung himself. Last night, I will admit I had some doubts about you but you proved me wrong, and I'm not ashamed to admit it." He glared at Watson, not out of anger but from intensity. "Doctor, if a man can last out here, without his soul twisting and warping, he can last anywhere. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. That ankle ought to be bound for the trip."

The sudden change in subject caught Watson off-guard. He glanced down at his feet, and then back at Ives. "It's been more than nine weeks, and I wouldn't be able to travel if it were fully immobilized."

"You won't be able to travel at all if you don't immobilize it and you end up causing it further injury," Ives returned, warming to his topic.

Hard-pressed to keep from smiling, Watson replied, "The risk of causing it further injury is dramatically reduced, as the eight week point is well in the past."

Ives glanced at his watch. "You're lucky you've only a few minutes to catch your train, else I'd haul you down to the dressing station and forcibly bind it myself."

"I'm perfectly capable of binding it myself once in Quetta." Watson knew the compromise would satisfy the older doctor, as well as continue the argument simply for the sake of arguing.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll bind it _before_ Quetta," Ives retorted, a smile playing on his own lips. He clasped Watson's hand firmly, man to man, before clapping him on the right shoulder and stomping away.

"Stubborn young fool!" he called back without turning. Watson smiled more broadly. It was, he reflected, the best send-offs he had received from the army.


	18. Karachi

_Writer's block is gone, with a vengeance. I've been attacked by various plot bunnies that don't want me to finish this story__ (Said bunnies are now caged and shall be released, in due time.)_

OCTOBER 19, 1880: KARACHI, PAKISTAN(28)

1 p.m.

Watson stepped off the rail car from Quetta to Karachi with more reluctance than relief. He was stiff and sore from a week of constant travel, and heaven knew the accommodations of army rails left much to be desired, but Karachi was the last stop before England. And once in England . . . well, that was the problem. He didn't know what would come next. And he was loath to face that uncertainty.

A brief nap at the army-provided accommodations did wonders for his spirit, followed with a hasty wash-up. This time, Watson made certain to shave his neck first, and then move on to his face. By the time he finished with his cheeks and chin, however, his hands were unsteady from the slow, cautious work and his upper lip was still unshaven. He scowled at his reflection, patience at an end. Devil take it! He'd just grow a mustache and bypass shaving the area entirely. It wasn't as if he'd be written up for breaking regulation anymore.

The small rebellion cheered Watson enough to venture out into the city, taking care to first bind his right ankle and take up a cane. The cane would not only provide some support, it would also serve as a weapon, should it come to that.

Karachi sat on the coast of the Arabian Sea, a few hundred miles north of Bombay. Karachi was not very different from that city, although Watson's impressions of India now were rather somewhat more "old-hand" than when he had first arrived a year ago. The smell of the sea and the city, the auditory flood of over a dozen languages, the humid warmth of the air – these were familiar exoticisms, invoking curiosity this time around rather than apprehension.

Watson wandered through the streets, taking in the mosques, markets, and harbor. He had arrived just as the brutal heat of summer was finally relenting, and the cool sea breezes made for a delightful atmosphere. Karachi was ablaze with color and sound and life, a distant cry from the drab, arid land he had spent the previous six months in.

Two young women, barely out of girlhood, smiled at him over the bolts of cloth they were selling. He smiled back, taking in their lithe forms with eager eyes. It had been almost three months since the last time he had laid eyes on a woman, even counting the veiled natives of Afghanistan. Then as the girls blushed and lowered their eyes, Watson grew conscious of his behavior and reddened also.

To cover his embarrassment, he quickly turned and watched a vendor selling all manner of blades and swords make a deal with an army colonel in his mid to late fifties. The scene was of some entertainment, as the vendor apparently spoke no English and the colonel spoke nothing but. Though punctuated by shouting by both men, the actual bargaining relied heavily on pointing, gesturing, and the occasional flail of the arm.

At last both men seemed reasonably satisfied and the colonel exchanged a number of coins for an engraved sword and two beautifully embellished knives. When he turned to the street, however, Watson could not repress a cry of surprise.

"Colonel Hayter!"

The colonel turned, looking around him for the source of the voice. Watson moved closer with a smile, which Hayter returned once he saw who it was.

"Dr. Watson! Good heavens, man, I almost didn't recognize you! What on earth have you been doing to yourself?"

Watson shrugged easily, deprecatingly. "Oh, fighting in disastrous battles, facing jezail bullets, working in the midst of an epidemic of enteric fever, the usual army business. But what are you doing in India? I thought you were going back to your command in Afghanistan."

"I might ask you the same question. As for my command in Afghanistan, I believed I would be returning also, thanks to your good work." Watson smiled his thanks, with a touch of a blush. "Then I heard about Maiwand and Bobs's march to Kandahar. Ah, you heard of them also."

"I was at Maiwand but I only heard about General Roberts," Watson replied.

Hayter shook his head. "Bad business, that. I'm getting too old for regulation ridiculousness. I had my chance to retire and I took it. When the _Orontos_ leaves in two days I shall be on it." He looked peeringly at the doctor. "Is that why you're here also? You mentioned bullets and enteric fever, and you certainly look as though you've seen enough of them."

"I shall be seeing you on the _Orontos_, yes," Watson conceded, his voice controlled.

"Invalided out?"

"Yes."

Something in Watson's tone caught his ear, and Hayter checked himself. "Well, better that than because you made advances to your commander's daughter," he said and was pleased at the slight chuckle Watson gave.

"Now, m'boy," he continued, taking Watson's arm, "this is our last chance to see and experience India. I suggest we make the most of it."

"Anything particular you had in mind?" Watson asked, interest growing.

Hayter grinned knowingly. "I did, at that. They may not be at their best at this hour but it should be close enough to evening that we won't be turned away."

"Turned away from _what_?"

"A little establishment that specializes in . . . exotic entertainment."

Apprehension now mingled with curiosity and interest. Watson knew how varied and extreme the colonel's interests could be. "And what is the nature of this exotic entertainment?"

"Beledi dancing girls." (29)

Memories of Bombay sent the blood rushing to Watson's face. "I . . . am familiar with this particular form of entertainment. There is really no need to revisit it."

"You may have seen Beledi in Bombay, but I can assure you it is certainly not the Beledi of Karachi," replied Hayter, not to be dissuaded from his course of action. Despite protests, Watson found himself trudging after Hayter, his face three shades of red.

(28) History lesson of the day: "Pakistan" (and Karachi) was part of British-controlled India in 1880. The nation as we know it wasn't formed until 1947. Therefore . . .

(29) Beledi dancing would be part of the culture, especially in 1880, AND considering that Karachi at the time was a booming seaport . . . and full of foreign sailors/soldiers looking for some exotic entertainment. (History lesson #2: "belly dancing" did not enter the common English vernacular until about 1899 or so, and then it derived from a French phrase meaning "dance of the stomach.")


	19. Portsmouth

OCTOBER 21, 1880: KARACHI, PAKISTAN

11 a.m.

Watson leaned on the railing of the _Orontos_, taking in his last view of India. He was faintly and vindictively glad Colonel Hayter opted to remain in his cabin to fight off _mal de m__ar_ (30). It was because of that man that Watson's memories of the night before last were filled with a haze of scented smoke, throat-burning alcohol, swirls of colored scarves, jingling of a thousand tiny bells, and more human flesh than he had seen outside of a dissection room. The last time his cheeks had burned so hotly he had been ill with enteric fever. But Watson _had_ learned something that night: Karachi's Beledi girls were different than Bombay's. They wore more clothing but were far, far less inhibited in their movements.

He had also learned that while hangovers were unpleasant, they were worse by a tenfold when one was convalescing. Watson wondered how much of the colonel's discomfort was sea-induced and how much of it was residual hangover, as the older man believed in "hair of the dog." (31)

Now, though, he found the rhythm of the Arabian Sea peaceful. He had gained sea legs early on during the voyage to India; he was pleased to note he was doing so again on the way home. Even as a boy, illness and injury were soon overcome. It was a useful trait for a doctor to heal quickly; perhaps history would continue to hold true. Watson watched the sun glinting off the waves while a cautious optimism crept over him. Netley was not the last word in medicine; he would see what hospitals were hiring upon his reaching England.

NOVEMBER 20, 1880: PORTSMOUTH, ENGLAND

5 p.m.

Had England always been this cold and damp and foggy? How had he never noticed it before? And why on earth hadn't someone warned them?

Shivering hard, Watson made his way down the gangplank. Sleet stung his face and ungloved hands. True to Ives's prediction, his shoulder and leg were throbbing dully in protest at the meteorological change. All his optimism from the past month had disappeared with the sun. To add to his misery, he had forgotten he had become use to the rocking of the boat, and now nearly toppled over when he reached solid, dry land.

"Not much of a welcome, this," Colonel Hayter agreed behind him. "Someone forgot to put in an order for balmy weather."

"Well," said Watson, determined to make the best of a bad situation, "we might as well find some rooms and get out of this wretched weather."

"I know just the place," the colonel replied and took the lead. Watson sighed, dreading to find out what Hayter had in mind this time, but his desire to find warm, dry lodgings overrode his reluctance. To his pleasant surprise, Hayter headed to a fairly respectable, if somewhat shabby, establishment. "I telegraphed a friend of mine in Surrey before we left and he recommended this place," was the explanation.

The pair paid for their respective rooms – Hayter for one night, Watson for a week – and made their way to the dining area. A simple stew of beef and potatoes, with new bread and butter, was the quintessential British meal they sat down to, although both found it strange and rather bland after army and Indian fare.

"So you're going to stay a bit?" Hayter asked around bites.

Watson nodded and swallowed before answering. Table manners in the army were hit-or-miss at best, but he thought it wise to at least try to behave in a civilized manner now that they were back in England. "Yes, I thought I'd see if the local hospitals had any openings."

Hayter looked skeptical. "Well, I do wish the best of luck with that," he said. "You'll find a stiff bit of competition around in any port city you try." He sipped his drink and added, slowly, "you know, you're welcome to join me in Surrey. I know my friend Roebore well; it would be no imposition to put you up as well."

"Thank you, but no." Whatever happened, Watson was determined he should not rely on charity, even from friends. On that point, he would hold firm. "I appreciate the offer but I should like to see what I can accomplish first."

Hayter nodded, respecting a man's attempt to stand on his own two feet. "I'll give you Roebore's address anyway; if nothing else, you can use it to write me."

DECEMBER 5, 1880: PORTSMOUTH, ENGLAND

3 p.m.

Watson stared at the address Hayter had given him, by now the words slightly smudged and the paper crumpled. In his most recent letter, the colonel had mentioned how he was in the process of purchasing a small estate near Reigate in Surrey. The implication was clear: Watson was still welcome to come and stay with him.

The offer was more tempting now than it had been a fortnight ago. No hospital in the area was even remotely interested in hiring another staff member. There was a glut of doctors, thanks to the Zulu War and the Second Afghan War. The full pension was plenty to live on yet Watson felt very much at loose ends. Adjusting to civilian life was proving a more daunting task than previously anticipated.

A large part of it was learning to live in safety once again. Watson had heard of, but breezily dismissed, the battle fatigue so many soldiers returned home with. Now the wheel had turned and he found himself facing that which he had pooh-poohed. There were dreams, terrible combinations of memory and imagination, not every night, but often enough that he was learning to dread falling asleep. He was constantly on edge, tensed and irritable. Loud noises, like the clanging of the milk cans early in the morning, were enough to bring a cold sweat to his brow. Worst of all were the rare occasions when the fog and cold of England disappeared and he saw again the dusty yellow plains of Afghanistan and relived the battles and death from months ago. Watson knew there were some soldiers who went mad after battle; all he had to do was look into the Portsmouth alleys to see them. The fear of ending up the same way preyed on him. He dared not write to Hayter about it and there was no one he was close enough to to speak of it. In desperation, he purchased a cheap little book of empty pages and nearly drenched it with inked words. It helped, some.

Now seated in the empty dining area of the same establishment, Watson read and reread Hayter's letter though he almost knew it by heart. Suddenly, a fantastic crashing noise reverberated though the small room. Without thinking, Watson dropped beneath the scarred wooden table until silence descended. Only then did he recognize the sound as a load of metal pans hitting the hard floor of the kitchen. Shame-faced, he crawled out and came face-to-face with a man more than twice his age who had also taken refuge beneath the table.

"Which war were you in?" the man asked, knowingly.

"Second Afghan. You?"

"Crimean." (32)

Years afterwards, Watson could pinpoint that precise moment as the one where he knew he had to get out of Portsmouth . . . immediately.

(30) For everyone who doesn't speak French, seasickness.

(31) Another history lesson: the Romans believed that you needed the hair of the dog that bit you to make a potion to ward off infection in the bitten area. Today, the phrase means that if you're hungover, a little bit of alcohol will make you feel better . . . who comes up with these things?!

(32) The Crimean War took place in the 1850s.


	20. London

JANUARY 7, 1881: LONDON, ENGLAND

The bill lay on the side table, innocuous black ink on white paper. The piece of paper itself was quite small and its message was straightforward and simplistic.

Watson could hardly bring himself to look at it.

He knew the excessive freedom of his current life was doing him no favors. Lack of responsibilities and structure had allowed the lazy, bohemian streak in his nature to run wild. He could have sought out other discharged soldiers but he knew from previous experience how depressing and predictable the conversation would become. Had he been persistent enough he could have entered the social circle of medical students and the like that occupied St. Bart's. However, his failed attempts to find some sort of occupation there (or indeed, at any hospital) was an embarrassing and embittering wall he did not feel up to breeching.

Instead, he had fallen into company with idlers and loungers who were as free as air as he. Watson found himself gravitating towards pubs and races: the latter for a small bit of excitement and challenge in an otherwise drab existence; the former for its company, such as it was, and the chance to forget himself and current circumstances.

Neither vice had come to dominate his time . . . yet. Nevertheless, Watson could feel the pull of temptation. How easy it would be to have one more brandy, to bet on one more race. . .

_J__ust one more, just one more time__, the nightmares were far less frequent when he had _something_ to occupy his time, what harm would it do, just once more, one more time_

No.

It had to stop and soon. There was always a reckoning at the end and that reckoning had come at last. Since early December Watson had been staying at a private hotel in the Strand, a rather good one but one whose prices were substantial. Add to that his recent predilection for the horses and bar company, and it was apparent the four pounds, six a week would not be enough for Watson to continue living this way. That bill, that accursed bill on the side table, confirmed it. He would have enough to pay it off in full by next week – thank goodness for small blessings – but now he needed a new course of action.

Seeking a more neutral atmosphere in which to think, Watson made his way to the Criterion Bar. It was just after the usual luncheon crowds departed and the establishment was relatively empty. He waved off the offer of a menu and commenced to solve his dilemma.

His first option was to leave London, abandon the idea of city life in general. The temptations of a degenerate life would be far fewer and would be cause for his fixed income to stretch further. Watson knew he could hunt up his relatives in Scotland but was loath to do so. It smacked too much of living on charity . . . and despite its drawbacks, he was developing a taste for independent life. Besides which, he was growing fond of the noisy, dirty, bustling city that had been home for a month.

So, London it was! Obviously he would have to leave the hotel as soon as possible, though making sure he paid that wretched bill in full. Turn over a new leaf for the new year, as it were. Watson knew he would eventually have to give up the late nights in the bars and the gambling but first things first. A new residence was the primary concern.

It was about a minute later that there was a light tap on his shoulder. Expecting to see an impatient barkeep, Watson was thoroughly taken aback by the young man with medium brown hair and light brown eyes.

"John Watson, I thought it was you!" Gerald Stamford(33) exclaimed. "But I confess you are one of the last people I expected to see in London!" He seemed delighted at both his correct guess and at seeing the doctor.

Watson found himself smiling broadly in return. Though Stamford had been only a dresser, they had been friendly acquaintances at Bart's. At any rate, Stamford was the first person he knew and recognized in England since Colonel Hayter. "It's good to see you again," Watson said in complete sincerity. Then, since it was nearly one, he added an invitation to lunch at the Holborn, a place he knew from experience served good food at moderate prices. Stamford accepted but insisted on hailing a cab.

Once within, Watson asked Stamford about himself. "Are you still at Bart's?"

"Oh, yes," was the reply. "Professor's assistant but slowly making my way up the academic ladder, as it were. But you! Last I heard, you were applying for Netley's course in army surgery and that was almost three years ago. Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson? You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut." (34)

Watson leaned back in the cab and gave a small, rueful laugh. "Well, I did go to Netley for the course you mentioned. Joined up upon graduation in '79, and was attached to a regiment that ended up in Afghanistan. The long and the short of it is that I was shot, twice, during the retreat from Maiwand to Kandahar, and then contracted enteric fever a month later. And now I'm here."

"Poor devil!" Stamford exclaimed as the cab reached its destination. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings," Watson bluntly replied. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."

"That's a strange thing," remarked Stamford, faintly amused. "You are the second man today that has used the expression to me."

"And who was the first?"

The pair was escorted to a table and once seated, Stamford answered, "A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse."

Here at last was the opportunity Watson had been unconsciously waiting for! "By Jove, if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone," he added, suddenly aware of how very true his last statement was.

However, Stamford looked a trifle uneasy at the unexpected show of enthusiasm. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said over his wine-glass. "Perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."

At this point, however, Watson was willing to room with just about anyone. How bad could the fellow be, anyway?

(33) We are never given the Christian name of "young Stamford" in STUDY IN SCARLET. I just went through a bunch of names until I found one that seemed OK.

(34) Yup, direct quote from STUDY. There's lot of them from here on out.


End file.
